


The Nightwatchman

by ChangHenGe



Category: EastEnders
Genre: Cricket, M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-29
Updated: 2011-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:39:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChangHenGe/pseuds/ChangHenGe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Syed loves to play cricket while Christian loves to watch him play. Some sporty themed PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Coin Toss

I wake suddenly, swathed in somnolent, drowsy confusion. I force a single eyelid to prise half open and assess the situation. I know from the darkness of the night that still dominates behind the mostly shuttered windows, and the familiar sounds of pre-dawn Walford, that it is still the middle of the night, yet something is just not right. The bed feels too large, and surprisingly cold. I stretch a tired arm across and find merely chilly sheets and lonely pillows where there should be the heat of warm limbs, the tousle of bed-ruffled and hand-stroked curls and the smell of man. Oh shit. My mind groans, and I pull myself up into a sitting position, eyes still mostly shut despite my best efforts as I desperately try to remember last night. I didn't come home drunk did I? Did we have an argument? I shake my head and force some sense into it. Nah, I sleepily remember, we had an early night, the one part of my body that refuses ever to fully rest providing a pleasurable reminder of this. So where is he? Finally my eyes admit defeat and agree to creak open, rewarded for their efforts by a the sight of a fuzzy glow from across the room, the dimmed lights reflecting off two wide deep brown eyes peering out from a curled mass of limbs on the sofa. I blink and gradually let the image of Syed in T-shirt and boxers come into focus; his body tensed, his expression intense, his focus unblinking, his teeth pressing lightly into his bottom lip, allowing only brief utterances to slide out of the side of his mouth, _get in, do it_ , _come on_ , _yessssss_.

"Are you watching porn Sy?" I ask, groggily "Cos, y'know it's rude not to share."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up," he replies, a touch of guilt edging his words. "And no. Not porn. I wouldn't even know where to star-"

"Channel 877" I interrupt smoothly, "bit dull though to be honest, nothing worth getting out of bed with me for. So what is it that has you up at-" I glanced across at the clock by the bed "-4.30am?"

"It's the Ashes. Final test."

"Huh?" I wonder if I can blame my sleep deprived brain for the lack of sense that Syed is speaking or if it Syed who has lost it.

"The Ashes. England/Australia. " He laughs at my bemused expression. "Cricket." He finally explains, speaking slowly and clearly as if to a rather slow child.

"Right. Wasn't that on last week? And the week before? And the week before that?"

"It's five tests, each lasts up to five days. This is the third day of the fifth test. Clearer now?"

"Sort of, but Sy, why is it on in the middle of the night and why are you watching it when you could be sleeping. You know you get all grumpy if you don't get your full eight hours."

"I don't get grumpy! Well only sometimes. And it's almost always your fault anyway. It's on in the middle of the night because it is being held in Australia, and I'm watching it because I like cricket. And it's really exciting."

"Really?" I raise an eyebrow and start to get out of bed, grabbing a dressing gown to protect me from the chill winter air in the flat. "Fuck it's cold, you must be freezing Sy." And I clamber onto the sofa with Syed, pulling him into a cosy embrace, wrapping my legs around his mostly bare own. I turn my attention briefly to the TV screen. Men standing round, one man throws a ball, another man stands mostly still and prods at it, people ooh appreciatively, nothing happens. "Sorry, _this_ has kept you glued to the TV through the night. And you might as well 'fess up now Syed Masood, have you been sneaking up to watch it for the past few weeks?"

"Not _every_ night," he blusters. "Just….some?" I laugh and smooth a few locks of hair behind his ear. The sound of cheers and more sustained applause comes from the TV and Sy quickly shifts back to the screen. I look too and see a cute fit young guy, tall, with a mop of dark hair walking off a bit glumly but to great acclaim, helmet in hand, bat doffed to the crowd as he walks off.

"Who's that?"

"Alastair Cook." Syed replies enthusiastically. "He's been fantastic this series, he's just made 189, can you imagine? Seriously Christian his stats are immense-"

"I can imagine," I grin, "he has a great arse for one thing."

Syed's arm whacks me in the stomach. "I was talking about his runs. Dirty-minded sod that you are. " A pause. "You really think he has a great arse?" He looks up at me from under thick lashes, his eyes darkened and heavy.

"Well, it's quite nice." I lower my voice and lean nearer to Syed's ear, "Seen better though." I whisper huskily.

"Oh really?" He raises an eyebrow archly, moving nearer and nearer to my waiting lips, "and where wou—" But he cuts off and moves back to the screen when another cry comes out from the televised crowd, his attention captivated by the events unfolding. I sigh in semi-mock frustration and lean back on the sofa. "Sorry Christian," he turns back guiltily to face me. It's only on for two more nights and then that's it. For a bit"

"It's fine," I grin. "It's kind of cute to see you so interested. Never realised that you were that bothered."

"Try to find a Pakistani boy growing up in England who _i_ _sn't_ that bothered about cricket," he retorts. "You just grow up with it, watching Pakistan, watching England, practicing cover drives in front of the mirror, trying to bowl googlies against the garden wall."

Bowl _what_? I wonder to myself. Not for the first time since I first set eyes on Syed, I am left feeling like he is talking a different language to me, one that I can't understand or relate to, one that reminds me again of all the things that I just don't get. But unlike so much else, the topics that others would want to use to separate us, this produces no fear or threat, it's just nice to hear him so enthusiastic and excited, revelling in the pure and untainted happiness of a child. Even if I haven't got the faintest clue what the hell he is talking about. "Did you play much then as a kid?"

"Yeah, played a lot at school. Didn't you?"

"Nah, played football a bit but mostly used to bunk off PE instead," I laugh. "It doesn't sound good for a personal trainer does it?"

Syed shakes his head with feigned sadness. "No, I wouldn't mention that to your clients. And you didn't play with your mates or anything? Mum always used to complain that I spent far too much time down the park or wherever playing cricket with the other kids in the neighbourhood. I even played a bit at uni too with mates. Just mucking around really, but a lot of fun.

"You haven't played in ages though right?" I ask, my forehead creasing as I strive to think back to conversations at work, in the flat, in bed.

"You know how it is, when I started working I didn't really have much time for stuff like that. And I moved and other stuff kind of got in the way." His voice quietens as he drifts into less pleasant recollections. I edge back to him, running fingers lightly through his hair, letting his locks fly up before resettling in casual disarray on his scalp.

"So did you bat or bowl?" I ask, attempting to bring the conversation back to a more light-hearted tone, wanting him to regain his carefree enthusiasm of before.

"Bowl mostly. Batted a bit but I wasn't the best. Bowling was fun though. I used to spend hours on my own sending balls down the garden trying to hit these targets on the wall. Sometimes I'd bully Tam into 'batting'" Syed's hands stretching into the air to make inverted commas in the air, "but really I just got him to stand there holding a bat while I pelted him with balls. I can't believe he didn't complain more."

"Oh you can pelt me with your balls anytime you like, and I won't complain, not one bit," I tease him, running a finger under his chin, tilting his eyes to face mine.

He laughs freely and moved his own hands to rest casually yet possessively behind my neck. "Good to know."

"So, do you miss it? Playing it, I mean?"

"Sometimes I guess. It was fun, and it's nice to be in a team like that, feel that camaraderie." Syed's voice falls slightly short again, and it is hard to miss the twinges of sadness and loneliness that come out. I can't help but feel a sense of guilt, he doesn't see anyone at the mosque anymore, he left all his old business mates behind when he decided to ditch all that property development stuff. I worry sometimes that he has lost friends because of being with me. I know he wouldn't change anything but even so….. I shake my head to myself, such feelings are not what I want to be thinking about right now. I return to a more pleasing topic.

"Bet you looked hot in cricket whites," I think out loud, watching the hot flush pass over his face with no little delight. "Bet your arse looked _amazing_ in those trousers," I continue, pulling his willing body over towards mine and pulling his t-shirt up higher and sliding my hands happily down his back, letting my cool hands absorb the warmth of his glowing skin.

He shivers. "Cold hands."

"Sorry," I murmur into his chest as I slide further below him, letting my tongue trace a path down his lightly tensed stomach, sucking at his navel, placing soft-mouthed damp kisses along the cotton edge of his boxers. "This better?"

"Definitely…." He moans freely as I grip the boxers with my teeth and tug them down, releasing his delicious hardness from its tight confines. As I draw him into the wet heat of my mouth, my tongue exploring its favourite destination, sucking and licking, teasing and toying, I let my hands return to his tempting body and grip his arse firmly, letting visions of Syed walking on a grassy field in the tightest of fitting trousers fill my feverish mind. The thought drags wanton groans from my throat, reverberating around him, drawing desperate keens of his own. My fingers press harder and tighter, sending his hips bucking deeper into me. He shivers again from the contact but this time it is resplendent with desire as he follows the pleading wordless encouragement of my hands and tongue and fucks my mouth freely and wildly from above.

A shuddering spasmodic burst from supple hips and he finds his release in the welcoming cavern of my mouth, his body collapsing soon after to rest on mine. I let him settle then pull myself back up, pulling my arms around his tired frame until we lie peacefully on the sofa, his head nestled comfortably in my chest.

Another cry comes from the TV next to us but this time Syed doesn't stir, wriggling back down as he drifts instead off to a gentle slumber.

"Got your mind off the cricket for a bit then," I whisper teasingly into his hair, observing the sweat-dampened curls that have fallen to cling happily to the sides of his neck and imagining a casual collar nudging these locks as he runs and dives with graceful glory.

"Says who?" he replies sleepily, "maybe I was thinking of Alastair Cook the whole ti—" But I cut him off in mid-stream as I pick him up and throw him casually over my shoulder, his attempts at struggle hampered by his helpless giggles. "Oy Christi-, stop it, I'm sorr-, put me down, I didn't mea-, you know I'm ticklish, I'll make it up to you…."

I throw him onto the bed and stare in wonder, lust and love at the sight of his drowsy splendour, at how even now, with rumpled, sweat tinged clothes, mussed up hair and sleep-filled eyes, he still exudes an air of incomparable grace. I bite my lip as I smile and pull the duvet up over his gorgeous body, laying the lightest of kisses along his stubbled chin and over his closing eyes.

"Get some sleep baby," I breathe into his ear as I pull his body, now weighted with sleep, into my arms.

In the peace of the flat a fuzzy light continues to glow, the hum of crowds still cry as leather ball hits wooden bat again and again and again and again. There is just one last thought occupying my mind before I enter into a blissful kaleidoscopic dreamland of emerald grass, aquamarine sky, pristine clothes and glowing skin, _Sy needs to get back on a cricket pitch, for both our sakes_.


	2. The Coin Toss

**Two weeks later. 7am.**

"Right, one more lap and we'll call it quits for today, eh?" I turn to Ben, one of the new bunch of clients who had arrived promptly once the Christmas decorations had come down and the pounds had piled on. He seemed a generally easy-going bloke, relaxed and up for anything. Well, most things, I think to myself, noting the way his eyes widened in horror as beads of sweat dodged their way past the veins bulging in his forehead. "Or maybe as it's your first session I'll go easy on you and we can just have a quick warm down now instead," I amend and Ben sighs in relief.

"Thank fuck for that," he grins. "Seriously, I didn't think I was that unfit at the moment. I'm normally pretty on top of things but Christmas…"

"Yeah I know, eat, drink and eat some more! No worries mate, we'll get you back fighting fit in no time. " We start stretching out tight muscles and jogging slowly round the park in the winter morning gloom, chatting more easily now that the pace had lessened somewhat. "So, what do you normally do, fitness wise?"

"Bit of running, footie, mostly cricket though."

"Cricket?" I ask, the cogs in my brain starting to turn, a smile turning up the corners of my mouth.

"Yeah. Don't suppose you play much do you Christian?"

"Nah, not really one for team games," I reply, well not most of them, I think, allowing myself a brief smirk as I consider some the positions that my most enthusiastic and cooperative of teammates likes to get himself involved in.

"Shame, our team is just starting training again, getting ready for the new season starting in a couple of months time, and we really could do with a few more players. We definitely need a new bowler for one thing."

I bounce excitedly on my toes, releasing some of my pent up energy. "Oooh, I have just the man for you. My boyfriend is a brilliant bowler, he's been too busy to play much recently but he'd love to join a team now."

"Really?" Ben looked keenly up at me as he stretched out his quads. "What does he bowl?" I must have looked as puzzled as I felt as he laughed at me. "Is he a fast bowler, swing bowler, a spinner?"

I racked my brains, trying to remember more details of our late night conversation, details other than how his hair had fallen into his eyes when he started talking about playing in the park, how his eyes had shone when he described the events unfolding on the field, how they had darkened when he spoke of the camaraderie of the past, and how they flickered shut as I licked and sucked him, revelling in his gorgeous taste. "Erm, he likes bowling balls at people's goolies?" I hazard a guess.

"What you two get up to, in the privacy of your own home…" Ben laughed again. "He can bowl a googly? A spinner. Brilliant, we really need a decent leg spinner. He sounds perfect."

I grin, pride and delight merging as I think back to this morning, the final glance I made to the bed as I left, the rumple of sheets and duvet barely covering the slender body contained within, his sleepy murmured farewell, one outstretched arm lazily blowing a kiss to me as I departed. "Yeah, he is."

…

I bounce up the stairs to the flat, taking them two, three at a time, excitement pounding through my veins, Ben's details scrawled on a piece of paper gripped tightly in my hand. I just can't wait to tell Sy.

I burst through the door, letting it slam happily behind me and causing a low voiced moan to emerge from the duvet covered mound on the bed. I take a running leap and dive headfirst onto the firm mattress, landing slightly less gracefully than I had anticipated.

"Oof, Christian, wha—"

"Morning gorgeous." I grin, yanking the duvet back to press wet kisses along his warm neck and into the hollow of his throat. I glance across at the clock, "haven't you got to get up for prayers soon?"

"Got up. Prayed. Went back to sleep. Got woken up by some madman landing on top of me. Any more questions?" And with a quick yank, the duvet is dramatically pulled back over his head, leaving the merest hint of dark locks flashing out.

"Oooh someone's grumpy. Guess someone didn't get his eight hours last night." I singsong, moving underneath the duvet myself, kissing over the prickly stubble on his chin, sucking at the spot behind his ear that makes him shiver.

"Your bloody fault," he grumbles, speech muffled through feathers and down, but his body begins to uncurl, giving my mouth more access to lick greedily at his sleep-warm flesh. "Eurgh, Christian, you're all sweaty and hyper."

"You love me all sweaty and hyper," I tell him truthfully. "And besides, I've got good reason to be hyper, I've got fan-tas-tic news," I crow, pushing his thick rebellious curls further back and nibbling at his lobe.

"Fantastic news that you can tell me all about in a couple of hours time? Please" he asks, the slightest tinge of desperation coming through his voice but I am too excited and I know he will be too. I roll him onto his back, pinning his limbs down onto the mattress with my eager arms and swiping a kiss over his plump soft lips, smiling at the instinctive response comes from his tired yet eager body and wanting mouth.

"Too. Good. To. Wait." I pant between full, hungry, open-mouthed kisses. But as he strains his back up from the mattress to deepen the kisses and renew our connection, I pull slightly further away. "Let me tell you your good news first, and then you can thank me," I smile and then add "in whichever way you think best," my voice lowering in pitch and deepening in intensity as his eyes widen and his mouth twitches with a tantalising mixture of mirth and desire.

"My good news? Come on then, spit it out."

"You, Syed Masood, have just joined a cricket team." I beam and sit back on my haunches, still straddling Syed's naked prone body.

Syed just lies in silence, his eyes blank, his forehead creased in confusion. "Am I still asleep? Did I miss something? When did I join a cricket team? I kind of thought that was the sort of thing I might remember…."

"Right, well Ben, the new client I saw this morning, he has a team, they need a new player and so bingo! You are now an official cricket player person thing." I beam happily and lean back over, letting my eyes take their fill of Syed's body on display, covering the lightly toned muscles with my licentious intent. "So, now if you want to thank me…" I continue as I head towards his gorgeous pouti—"Fuck!" I roll back onto the bed, my hands instinctively going to cover my crotch where Syed's knee had just unceremoniously lodged itself. "Sy! What the fuck is the matter with you? Shit that hurt." I look up to see Sy leap out of bed with the kind of energy he barely possessed five minutes ago.

"What's the matter with me? What the fuck is the matter with you? You just signed me up to some cricket team without even asking me? Fuck's sake Christian." He grabbed his dressing gown and stormed into the kitchen while I continue to writhe on the bed in ill-disguised pain and no little confusion.

"But you wanted to join a team, you said so!"

"I said, that sometimes, I miss being on a team. I didn't bloody tell you to go out and find the first bloke you see and enrol me into their club." He noisily opened the kitchen cupboards, grabbing cups and clattering them onto the counter. "TEA?" he barks at me.

"Yes please." I say as contritely as I find possible. I honestly hadn't realised that it was possible to make turning a kettle on sound so furious but as it clicks on I find myself shuddering slightly from the ominous sound.

"You always know best, don't you Christian, always go leaping in, so sure that you have to run my life for me," he continues, angry tones still dominating in his voice, the teabags flying into the cups with such ferocity I find myself wincing in sympathy. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe, just maybe, if I wanted to play cricket I could actually have gone out and found myself a club? But noooo, not poor little Syed." The kettle clicks off and he splashes boiling water wildly into the mugs, sending half of the contents pouring out onto the counter. I bite my lip to stop myself from warning him to be careful not to scald himself.

"I'm sorry Sy," I try, sincerely. "I didn't realise…, I didn't think I guess. I just thought…"

"Thought what? That I can't make my own decisions about my life?" He grumbles, still obviously angry, but when he opens the fridge door I don't fear that it may come off the hinges, so I get up and cautiously limp over, standing behind him, not touching but near enough to feel him shiver when my breath hits the exposed skin on the back of his neck.

"I really am sorry, Sy. I thought you'd be happy, honestly. I just want you to be happy. Sorry for fucking up."

He sighs, pouring the milk into the tea more gently, and grabbing a towel to mop up the spilt water lying next to the kettle. I take this as a sign and edge nearer, tentatively moving my arms round him.

"Look, if you really don't want to do it then there's no problem, you can just call Ben and tell him you're busy. It's no big deal, honestly, I didn't sign your life away or anything."

Syed leans back into my arms and finally his tense muscles start to relax slightly, and he settles into my arms. "I know. Maybe I over-reacted a bit." I bite my lip, hard and satisfy myself with raising an eyebrow where he can't see it. "Oy, Clarke, just because I can't see you, doesn't mean I don't know what you are doing. Lower that eyebrow immediately. Maybe I overreacted just a little bit, but still, you should have asked. I haven't forgiven you yet mister."

I kiss his neck softly and hug him tighter. "I know, and I really am sorry." Syed pulls away from our embrace and hands me a cup of tea, taking his own with him over to the sofa. I sit down next to him, folding my legs underneath myself and letting the fingers of my free hand drag slowly through his tangled hair. "So, I fucked up by telling Ben you wanted to join, I know. I shouldn't have done it. I just got all over excited and stupid. But do you really not want to? Genuinely? Cos I thought you sounded so keen when we were talking and like you would love to be playing again."

Syed blows on the top of his tea and takes a sip before replying. "I do miss it, it's just… I haven't played in years, what if I'm really shit?"

I laugh with relief. "Ben's an accountant, not Freddy Flintoff in disguise! The team is just made up of ordinary blokes, you'll blow them out of the water. Not literally of course."

"And how would you know? You've never even seen me play! I'm totally out of shape."

I curl a lock around my finger and kiss him lightly on the temple. "But I do know how amazing you are, and how you put your heart and soul into everything you do. Plus, I know exactly how fit you are, and that's my professional opinion."

"Yeah, thanks for that." He rolls his eyes at me but still edges closer to me on the sofa, and his free hand starts lazily drawing circles on my leg and I think I am nearly forgiven.

"So is that it?" I ask gently. "Just worried that you might not be up to scratch?"

He pauses, sips again at his tea and then puts the cup on the coffee table and looks up at me, his hands fiddling with the tie on the dressing gown. "Does Ben know that I'm gay?"

"Uh-huh," I reply, slightly confused. "I think the bit where I called you my boyfriend probably gave it away for him."

"Yeah, that normally does the trick. And he's straight?"

"As a die."

"But he was okay with me being on the cricket team?"

A light belatedly dawns in my mind. "Oh."

"It's just that, when I played before there were always these little jokes, y'know, just insinuations about people if they messed up an easy catch or something, then it was that 'backs against the walls' bollocks in the showers and stuff. I loved playing but afterwards sometimes I just wanted to run away. I want to play, I do, but what if it is just like that all again? Except this time it wouldn't be all insinuation but aimed specifically at me, at us."

I pull him nearer so our bodies are fully entwined, my arms surrounding him, his hands now occupied with the tie on my tracksuit bottoms. "Oh baby," I murmur. "Some people are twats, there's no denying it. But if you cut yourself off from doing things that you want to do, for the sake of the twats then they've won haven't they? Not to mention the fact that you don't know that these guys are actually twats yet. Why not give them a chance to prove their twatishness rather than just assume it eh?"

Syed pauses, his hands now stroking the contours of my chest. "You know it's a wonder you've not made the step into motivational speaking yet."

"Sarky bastard."

"Yep." He kisses my chest. "Why are you so keen for me to play anyway? I can always just pick up some cricket trousers from a sports shop if that's all it is."

"Nooooo," I moan, "I have to see you playing in them, all that stretching and reaching and running around. Otherwise it's not half as much fun. And besides all that, well, you were so excited the other day, talking about it. It's not often I get to see you like that. Well apart from the obvious," I grin, running my own hand over the expanse of bare thigh flashing through the opening in his dressing gown, savouring the feel of rough hairs tickling my palm and smooth skin tingling under my fingertips. "But when you were talking I could just see you, all free and young and gorgeous, all excited and full of life. Like the Syed that I know, that I get to see every day, but out there too, for the world to see. I just want you to be happy, and I think this could make you happy."

Syed's mouth found its way up from my chest to my face, a trail of kisses that started teasingly and light before becoming longer, deeper, more intense. "Are you being extra cheesy just to get me to forgive you and play in the team?" he whispered hotly into my ear.

"Maybe. Is it working?"

"Maybe." Then he grinned. "Okay, I'll give the team a go."

I whooped with delight, my hands grabbing either side of his face and bringing his lips to mine in a spine-tingling, body-aching kiss, but as my hands moved to pull his dressing gown fully open he dragged himself away, his tongue licking the edges of his mouth as a teasing grin threatened to appear. "Oy," I pout, "where's my thank you?"

"Not so fast, you're on probation. I might be going to try out this team but that doesn't mean all is forgiven just yet. I'll go to a training session and if it goes okay then I'll give you your thank you. And until then," Syed pulled himself up off the sofa, rearranging his robe, "you'll just have to be patient won't you?" And with a smirk he strolled off into the kitchen. "Gosh, I'm ravenous. Best get some breakfast down me. You alright Christian? Seem awful quiet."

I just lean back on the sofa and groan, frustration and pleasure fighting for dominance within me. But when I think of him out there on the field, full of vitality and pure unconfined joy, then I know for sure which one wins. "Me?" I reply. "I'm fantastic."


	3. Gentlemen and Players

_One week later. 8pm_

I sigh, and shut my book, resting my head in my hands for a minute before looking at my watch and then double checking the time on my phone. _He should be back any minute now_. Determined, I reopen the book and start reading again, _I'm not thick_ I remind myself, _I can get this_. Millions of people understand it. Kids round the world understand this. And dammit so can I. I rubbed my hands over my tired eyes again and blinked several times, trying to kick start my brain into some kind of working order. I swear I haven't had to concentrate this hard since school. Actually come to think of it, I don't think I ever concentrated this hard when I was at school. Maybe that explains a lot. I stare blankly at the page filled with words that masquerade as English, yet clearly make no sense at all. I flick to the front of the book and double check, but it doesn't seem to be a translation into Swahili or Icelandic or something. _Come on Christian_ , _you can do it_. I decide to just skip to the next chapter, in the vain hope that maybe that will make some more sense: _There are ten ways for a batsman to get out. I. Caught. II. Bowled. III. Leg Befor—_

I hear the downstairs door shut and I leap up excitedly, leaving the discarded book lying lonely on the table, and letting its nonsensical words fall out of my head. I grab the door to the flat and yank it open, peering down the stairs to see a familiar mess of dark hair making its way slowly upwards.

"How was it? Did you have fun? I've made you dinner, some carbs and protein to get your energy levels back up. You should eat soon after exercise you know, you've got an ideal window to help build up all those gorgeous muscles. Was everyone nice? Did you have fun? "

Syed laughed as he entered the flat, throwing his bag to the floor, dropping his jacket over the chair and leaning in for a gentle welcoming kiss. "Ah thanks. Yeah it was good." He bites his lip and then grins broadly. "It was _really_ good, actually, it went better than I expected."

"So you're definitely in the team then?"

He shrugged casually, the grin still stretching his corners of his mouth. "Yep. I am, as you might say, a proper Cricket player person."

I grabbed Syed and pulled him into a tight hug, feeling his warmth spread over my body, feeling the slight dampness still evident on his top, the familiar smell of his sweat reaching my nose, not mixed with our usual scents of sex and lube, but with grass and mud instead. I press my face deeper into his neck and inhale deeply, smiling into his soft skin.

"Tell me about it then, tell me everything." I pull back and look at the shine in his eyes, the lightness and happiness that glows from them and seems to heat up the wintery gloom of the flat.

"Dunno, not much to say, it was just…good. It felt good, running about, practising bowling, catching, having a bunch of people all around who only cared about whether I could throw a ball decently. It was just so nice to be amongst a bunch of people who didn't care who I was, didn't know anything about me, and didn't need to know. It was, I dunno, _easy._ And they trusted me, you know, they didn't just look at me and assume that I was going to fuck everything up, they've put me on the team, they trust me to be part of their team, someone they can rely on." I could see the pride practically falling off Sy's body as he smiled, a smile so infectious and delicious I began to wonder if it really was still late January in London, or if we had skipped straight to the bone-melting heat of mid-summer in Dubai or something. "You know what, during practice, I actually felt like I belonged somewhere, for the first time in so long."

The slight wince must have shown on my face as his smile wilted slightly and moved nearer to me, stroking the flat of his hand down my face. "I didn't mean it like that," he murmured and I nodded quickly, prickles of guilt nudging inside at the loss of his uncomplicated happiness. I tilted my head to kiss his palm, noticing the slight calluses and emerging blisters that were just beginning to develop there.

"This'll be sore tomorrow," I say, letting my tongue stroke in circles around the newly hardened patches of skin, and along the lines on his palm.

"They'll get used to it."

I looked at his tousled hair curled into damp spirals, half clinging to his face, his ears, his neck and thought of the way he looks after sex, the way he rolls over on the pillow next me afterwards, spreading his musky scent over the bed, sending his sweat tinged locks into spirals of disarray. I reach for him now and begin to smooth them back, letting my fingers comb through the jumble of heavy curls, feeling the salt of his sweat accumulate onto me.

"Was that the best thing? The team stuff?"

"Yeah, maybe. But I dunno, I think the best thing is just playing. It's different when you practice but it's still there a bit. It's that feeling, the feeling that right now, this is all that counts and all the stuff that you normally worry about, that normally wakes you up with a start at 2am, none of that matters. There's just you, and the batsman facing you, and everything else, everyone else, even your teammates, they all just fade away. You have to concentrate so hard, trying to read the batsman's mind, second guess what they might be thinking. You end up thinking, what do they want me to do, what do they think I want to do, trying all the time to do the opposite, to catch them off-guard and unawares. It's like a chess game or something, and you are concentrating so hard it's like everything else is just a buzz in your ears or all blurry round the outside of your eyes." Syed's words are tumbling out of his mouth, his eyes aflame again, his hands stroking down my arm almost absentmindedly as he looks towards my gaze but sees a different sight. "And, then, you finally get them out, and it's like all that concentration just dissolves, it's like the biggest relief and you feel like a kid again." He bites his lip and blushes. "That's the best bit, feeling like you are five years old and invincible, like nothing could ever go wrong and everything will turn out right."

Something about the way he looks right now makes my stomach flip with desperate need and love. I grab him and hug him tighter, pressing him into my arms, feeling the remnants of sweat dampen my clothes, his hair on my shoulder, his chests on my chest, my hands rubbing over his back, drawing large, encompassing circles, feeling the reverberation of his heart beats thudding through my body as if they were my own.

"I love you so much Sy," I whisper in his ear, and I feel the curve of his mouth as he smiles into my neck.

"Good." And I laugh at the satisfied tone in his voice, and at the happiness it gives me. He pulls away, his eyes smiling at me, his mouth opening ready to speak, until he suddenly draws back and his forehead creases slightly in confusion. I follow his gaze and realise that he is looking at the open book on the table. "What's your weighty tome then? I didn't realise you'd get so bored without me here that you would turn to _reading books_ ," he laughs, teasingly, emphasising the last two words with affected shock.

"Oy, I read." I reply, with a hurt tone that is largely put on.

"Christian," he begins, patronisingly, patting his hand onto mine, "looking at the pictures of semi-naked men in magazines does not count as reading."

"That magazine has some very educational articles." I pause and lower my voice, running my eyes down Syed's body, memories coming alive with every flash of skin that peeks out from its fabric confines, every droplet of perspiration that lingers in his soft hair. "And if I remember correctly, I think you particularly appreciated some of the more _interesting_ aspects of its journalistic expertise."

His cheeks redden but his darkened eyes don't move from my stare. "And here was I thinking you knew it all already."

"Oh I'm always open to new information, Syed. My motto is, it's never too late to learn. Hence the book."

Our gazes break as Syed turns to pick the book up off the table, turning it over to read the title. " _The Boy's Illustrated Guide to Cricket_." He looked up at me, his eyes a mixture of puzzlement and pleasure. "Are you trying to learn the rules of cricket?"

"Well I thought it would make sense, don't you? If I'm going to be watching you for days on end then I ought to have a few basic ideas of what is happening."

"You do know we only play one day games right? Not five day tests?"

"Seriously?" I couldn't help the relief that flooded through my body and my words. "Oh thank fuck for that, I was beginning to worry about how I was going to cope."

"You were really planning on watching something that bores you for five days in a row just because it makes me happy?"

"Wellll….to be honest I had just been thinking of it as five days of you all dressed up and sweaty."

Syed laughed. "Okay that makes more sense, in a pervy kind of way. Although I'm a bit worried about how you'll cope when there are 13 sweaty cricketers on the field all at the same time."

"Nah, I only have eyes for one gorgeous cricketer." I look at his legs, shifting slightly from side to side as he leans against the table, and feel myself begin to get hard again at the thought of me sitting in the stands, watching him in action, thinking of his arse flexing in his tight trousers. It's been a long week of thinking such inspiring thoughts with only my hand for consolation.

"Hmm. So, _Boy's Illustrated Guide."_ Syed started flicking through the pages, chuckling to himself. "When was this written, 1884 or something?"

"Yeah, maybe. I was bitterly misled by the title. I was hoping for some pictures of that boy you fancy."

"What Ali Cook? I don't fancy him!" Syed's voice had raised to an amusingly high pitch and I ruffled his hair with a grin.

"Yeah course you don't. Call him by a nickname and everything. I was hoping for a few locker room shots or something anyway. And what do I get, bloody line drawings of stick men in a circle and impossible to understand words. Who the hell invented this game Sy, where the fuck is the gully? And what's 'silly mid-off'? Why does 'catching in the slips' just sound dirty? How can anyone discuss this without laughing?"

Now Syed was chuckling freely and pushing his hair back from his face. "You really are trying aren't you? I tell you what, I'll explain it to you later."

"With diagrams?"

"Oh I'll do better than that."

And ignoring my raised eyebrow and unasked demand for clarification, Sy walks off towards the bathroom, pulling his t-shirt over his head and letting it drop uncaringly on the floor by his feet, kicking off his shoes, undoing the belt on his jeans and shucking them off with ease. He turns at the doorway, lithe body clothed only in the tightest of black boxers, flexing at the waist as he twists to face me, his wide eyes and plump lips giving him the perfect appearance of innocence and filth.

"Gonna grab a shower before dinner." I nod, struggling to find the appropriate words amongst the mass of stomach flipping licentious images in my mind. He moves out of sight and I swallow, shutting my eyes as I hear the creak of taps being turned and the gurgle of water running through the pipes. "Not going to join me then?" Syed's voice suddenly breaks through the fog of lust and my eyes slam open as my cock twitches hard. He is standing in the bathroom doorway, naked, glowing and glorious. "I thought last week you said something about me having to thank you when I got into the team. But you know, if you've changed your mind or you are too busy with dinner…"

"Hey!" I exclaim to the sound of Sy's giggles as he vanishes again, and I leap across to the bedroom in a couple of wild strides, rapidly pulling off my clothes to accompainment of the patter of water hitting pale porcelain and pounding onto tanned skin. I hear the faint rip of cotton as I yank off my boxers and the only part of my mind that can remember how to think wonders if I have torn yet another bloody pair. But as I enter the heat of the bathroom all I can think of is this. All I can think of is him.


	4. The Prematch Huddle

I enter the bathroom, blinking through the steam that is fogging up the mirror and filling my lungs. I leap under the shower, displacing the steady stream of hot water as I do so, sending splashes falling onto the floor, and leaving droplets lying heavy on Syed's lashes. He blinks them away and smiles slowly, stretching his hand out towards me, and I grab his hips as I let myself be pulled into his embrace. We find each other's lips as the water falls and pounds onto our bodies, my tongue lapping to find the traces of salt still lingering at the edges, those precious remains that the shower has not yet obliterated and cleansed away. He moans and pulls me nearer, his hands grasping the wet skin on my back, nails digging in to gain further purchase, and his mouth opening, drawing my tongue into the warmth of his mouth. We kiss with our whole bodies, our tongues colliding, our lips pressing, our hands caressing clammy flesh as slippery and desperate, we find ourselves lost again in our familiar private duet of love. I let my fingers follow the trail of water down Sy's back, every nail lightly stroking a path of shivery delight, whispering moans into his mouth as he flexes and grinds back into me. Our mouths finally break for air, but our bodies refuse to part, even as I feel our chests both gasping through the fog of damp air.

"It's been a long week," I murmur into his ear as my mouth wanders over his cheek and his neck, lapping up the tiny pools of water that nestle in the hollows of his collarbones. My hands go wandering too, grasping his arse as we slide together, gasping as my desperately aching cock hits against his, our hardness pressing almost painfully into our stomachs, demanding our attention but not yet, I tell myself, not yet. And as I suck at the pulse in his neck, and listen to his half uttered words, I run my hands further down, reaching the muscles in his thigh that are still tense and rigid. I can feel their ache, their unpleasant tightness, their pain from the unfamiliar pulls and commands of this evening. I wonder momentarily if I know this because of work, because of my daytime routines of second guessing the trials and inflictions of other people's bodies, but as I hear the low groan emerge from Syed's throat I know for sure that it is the night-time knowledge of Syed's body that brings me such heightened awareness of his every wordless flinch and whispered utterance.

"Is it sore there baby?" I ask quietly, stroking my fingers along the ridges of his taut muscles, pressing gentle kisses into his neck.

"Mmmm, a bit. It's all just a bit tight." He laughs quietly. "Guess I really am out of shape. At least it's still a couple of months of training before the season starts."

"You need a personal trainer," I smirk, pushing my thumbs into the top of his thighs, digging out the knot there the way that Sy has so often done for me. "Seriously though, we could go running together sometimes, wouldn't that be great?"

"Yeah…maybe." The hesitation in his voice is apparent and I pull back slightly, moving my hands to his hair and pushing the sodden locks back behind his ears, so I can look fully into his eyes.

"We'll see, eh. But right now," and I push him back away from me, laughing as he splutters with indignation and inhaled water, "right now, you need to stretch."

"Christian, I already have," he grumbles as I twist him round till he faces the wall, his arms out stretched, his hands resting on the tiles.

"Well apparently not very well. Come on you, get those quads properly stretched out otherwise you'll be no fun for me later."

He laughs and obediently leans against the wall, one lean leg in front of the other, stretching out the taut muscles as hot water drips onto his body and glides down, kissing every inch with its consistent, impersonal caress. I watch him, his skin somehow seeming to glow and blossom even under the flicker of the fluorescent light, and my desire swells even greater. I follow the path of water stroking along the curve of his back, nesting into the slight hollows at the base of his spine, trailing along the smooth skin of his arse before becoming tangled and lost in the rough hairs of his thighs. And oh fuck his legs, stretched like that, begging for the attention of my licentious eyes and the touch of my fingers, my nails, my mouth, my tongue, my legs, my cock. He swaps legs, moaning slightly as the muscles release and re-tense, and he shakes his head to rid his locks of the errant droplets that hid within. My eyes feel drunk with sensation, with the vision in front of me providing such perfect contrast to the surroundings; his tanned skin resting against the bright white wall, the soft angles of his skin as it presses against the harsh lines of the tiles, the sweet low hum of his voice whispering of soreness against the loud persistent drumming of the water on the floor. And then there is the way he stands here, so open to my eyes, letting me see all of him, his pain, his beauty, the strength in his lithe body and in his tender heart, his openness here to me in private against the way he covers himself up in public, letting his heavy desire and spirited pleasure rest only in shadowed eyes, allowing no-one else such a luxury as this, such a luxury as him.

He makes me impossibly greedy. I want to stare at him until my eyes forget about the existence of other sights, until the image of him is forever burned into my retinas. I want to touch him, to cover him with my body, feel his skin pressed tightly into mine, let him find the parts of me that send me to a place I never knew existed. I want to taste him, to feel him quiver and shake under me, to fill myself with him until I fall, so drunk on him I cannot stand. I want him here, naked, private, mine and I want him outside, sitting next to me in the pub, walking next to me in the street. I want him to stand with friends and with family, exchanging mock exasperated glances with me as those he love talk to him, tease with him. I want him everywhere and all the time, and sometimes I wake in the night and can't truly believe that he is there until I rest my hand on his heart and listen to the steading beats as I lull back off to sleep.

But he is mine and he is here, in our shower, alone.

He leans back slightly and rolls his head round his neck, shrugging his shoulders loosely as he does so. "Definitely out of shape," he mutters.

"I can help," I reply, pouring a generous dollop of shower gel onto my hand as I move into his proximity, my hands pressing into his skin at the top of his back, kneading the muscles while my mouth nibbles eagerly at the wet skin on top of his shoulders. "Okay?"

"Mmmmm….you are very good at this you know. Maybe it should be you doing the course instead of me."

There is a touch of pained doubt in his tone and I try to dampen it down the only way I know how, with slicked up hands stroking over his slippery chest, damp lips punctuating whispered words with sloppy kisses. "Sy, stop this. Where does it come from eh? Listen to me, you're the best damn masseuse in the whole of London. Fuck that, the _world_."

"And you've checked out all the competition have you?" There is a laugh in his voice that wasn't there before, and then a hitch in his breathing as my hands wander further down his stomach, and I press harder into his back, my cock rubbing between our wet skin as he falls forward onto the wall, his head resting back on his hands.

"No need. I know I've got the best…right… _here_." And I reach for him, my hand around his erection, running my fingers up and around, smearing gel and water as he moans and thrusts into my fist. I move faster, my knuckles scraping against the smoothness of the tiles and roughness of the grout, my cock grinding into the soapy sleekness of his back and his arse. It is familiar and good and hot and messy and fast. We don't last long, our need too long delayed not to chase immediate satisfaction and there are sudden shakes and cries reverberating around the small foggy room as we come. Syed collapses back into my arms, the sticky mess of semen rubbing into his back as he shifts to rest his head on my shoulder, turning to place a solitary kiss onto the skin of my neck.

"Nice," he sighs, and I nod in agreement, my hands now smoothing gel back over his stomach but with more casual, gentle strokes, cleansing, soothing. We stand in silence, our bodies as one under the steady pressure of the shower. I feel the rise and fall of his chest, the pulsing of his heart through his body, the ease as his muscles finally relax and calm. Wordlessly, we wash each other with hands and mouths and hearts alike until the water starts to run cool and goosepimples start to appear on our shivering skin.

"Bloody hot water," I mumble, moving away from Sy to turn off the taps, all the time mentally cursing Ian for his stinginess and refusal to agree to a newer boiler.

"I was beginning to get all pruney anyway," Syed replied, presenting a finger to my face with a kind of solemn earnest, laughing as I pulled it into my mouth, then moaning as I sucked harder on it, my eyes meeting his heated gaze. He bites his lip and steps nearer to me, ruffling my short hair with his free hand. "So, I was thinking…" and he looks so desperately delicious, I feel the sudden anxious need to bite him, suck him, inhale all of his newly fresh scent.

"Yeah?"

"I'm just not sure if that was enough of a thank you?" He gazes up at me from half shaded lashes, his eyes speaking of a thousand filthy images.

"Well you know much I hate arguing with you. So?" I grin, my mind working overtime and my body preparing itself eagerly for the promises implied.

"So….what do _you_ think would be an adequate thank you?"

I swallow, and stare again at Syed standing in front of me, at his supple strength lying within lean muscles, and the thoughts that had regularly occupied my mind since that night a few weeks ago, the images of him in my mind, of him striding forth, fierce, determined, graceful in his control and ability, and they culminate into one desperate, urgent need.

"Fuck me Sy, I want you to fuck me."

We don't often do this, but judging by the expression that flashes over Sy's eyes, the sudden burst of fierce flame that takes over and burns my skin with its intensity, and by the way his knuckles whiten as they grab my wrist and pull me out of the shower, rushed, possessive, eager… Well I'm guessing that right now Sy is not needing much convincing.

Mouths fighting with mutual desire, hands roaming with frantic pace, we half stumble our way out of the bathroom, not stopping to grab a towel or make any concessions to our sodden state in our wintery flat. As we fall onto the bed, I am hit by the chill breeze that creeps in through the windows and sends cold shivers over my body, but Sy is there, rubbing warmth through the caress of his fingers, his lips leaving my mouth to cover my body with his tongue, replacing the drops that are rapidly turning to ice with his perfect searing heat. Our wet skin soaking into the sheets, he grabs the duvet and pulls it completely over us, covering us in a blissful cocoon of warmth, pleasure and love. I blink to attempt to adjust to the sudden darkness, but before I can see properly I gasp with sudden delight as I feel Sy begin to slide his wet and slick finger inside me.

"It's okay?" he asks, and I feel the movement of his lips and the imprint of the words against the damp skin of my neck as he speaks.

"Fuck yes. Just like that Sy. Just…shit." And then I feel those same lips curve into a smile, his tongue now stroking a line back and forth along the length of my neck, working to the same pace as his finger inside me, the dual sensations sending electric shocks sparking out of my every nerve ending. I feel his hot breath hit my skin in pants and gasps as he moves more rapidly, letting another finger join, as he then ghosts my neck, my chin, my cheeks, my mouth in what feels like hundreds of feather-light kisses. I can't kiss back, I haven't enough breath to kiss. I try to speak, to tell him how good he feels, how much I love him, how much I want him, right now and always, but all I can find are incoherent cries of delight and incomprehensible murmurs of pleasure. All I can do is to reach for him and cover his skin with my hands and run my fingers through his hair and over his scalp, letting their silent caresses tell all that my failing mouth cannot. This isn't usual, normally lust serves to loosen my tongue in more ways than one, especially with Sy, especially when I can see the way his body reacts and his eyes flash when I tell him _exactly_ what he does to me, and then what I want him to do. But this is different. This is just _ours_. Sy has never been with another bloke like this, and God, it's been a long long while since I've had anyone else fuck me, and so the few times that he has let me feel him inside me have all been tinged with this sense of awareness, of being special, of belonging to us. As my body shivers with the feel of his possession, my mind trembles with the knowledge that no-one else knows exactly of this Syed, no-one else is aware of just how he can bring me to my knees with a look, with a word, with a touch. It makes the blood pump faster and harder through my body until all I can hear is it rushing through my ears, my mouth running dry as my brain falls into dizzying fits of desperation.

"Sy...please…now," I manage to gasp out the words and I feel the movement of his Adam's apple against my neck as he swallows.

"Side," he whispers breathlessly into my ear, "my thighs…" and I find a slight laugh, which turns quickly into a drawn-out moan as I feel his fingers slide regretfully from me.

I roll over onto my side, pushing myself back into Syed's chest as I do, his teeth and tongue marking the skin on my back, his nails scratching my chest as he runs his hands down my body before reaching to himself and then pushing gently, firmly, slowly inside me. He takes his time, moving with a control that I struggle to find, edging and resting, each movement causing my eyes to flicker shut until I catch a desperate breath again. My body is shaking with anticipation. I've never been too good at waiting and knowing that Sy is so controlled and so perfect behind me tips me over the edge. I can't take any more and so reach behind me, to grip what I can find of his arse as I push myself back, gasping as the breath expels from my lungs with the shock and pleasure of him fully inside me.

"Christian…oh fuck…you feel…you're so…fuck…" Sy's low voice purrs in my ear, cracking at the end and dissolving into the kind of curses that only fall from his lips when passion drives all sense from his mind.

My own senses are overwhelmed by him, the feel of him inside me, fitting so perfectly, moving so perfectly, every movement igniting sparks of fire all through my body. My flesh is shivering but burns hot with every flick of his damp hair onto my skin, the slide of his legs against mine, the coarse stubble of his chin scratching a searing blissful path over my shoulder. I shut my eyes, letting the waves of pleasure fall over me with the sound of his low voiced whispers, letting the multitude of visions of Sy flood my brain; the way he looked, stretching in the shower, his divine body on show for my eyes alone, he way he looks whenever I enter him, the way his pupils widen and he bites his lip, the idea of him performing on a sports pitch, everyone's hero but my man at home. Thoughts suddenly enter my mind, of grabbing him, sweaty and muddy, dragging him to a locker room, behind a stand, fuck _anywhere_ and just taking him there and then, clothed, glowing, gorgeous, mine. Loud desperate keens fall from my mouth and I grab his hand, moving it to pump my already wet cock, letting dreams and reality combine as I fuck his hand and feel him thrust ever stronger into me. And now, now words can flow freely as I find myself coming nearer to the edge, displays of my passion cascading helplessly from my mouth.

"You are so fucking amazing Sy, d'you know that? Do you have any idea how hot you are? How much I want you, always, _always_? Feel baby, feel how hard you make me. Sexiest fucking man I've ever seen, ever felt. You drive me fucking wild. You, always you…"

Syed's moans grow louder, his hand working faster as his movements grow more erratic, leaving me breathless, scrambling to keep a hold on myself, beads of sweat falling from hair and adding to the sodden sheets.

"So..close, oh shit…oh Christian I'm gonna…" and I felt Sy collapse into me, his body shuddering as his release pulses through me, his heartbeat thundering heavily through my body, overshadowing my own racing pulse. "Come for me baby," he breaths huskily into my ear and that is enough to really make me lose it, to leave me convulsing with breath-taking ecstasy as my nerves shatter into a thousand splinters of love.

…

Finally we lie in each other's arms, tired and sated, aching and tender, an unstoppable smile filling both of our faces.

"I think I missed my ideal window for repairing muscles," Syed muttered into my chest.

"Hmm…" I pause, stroking back his curls one by one, peering over his body at the plates of cold congealed mess that was our dinner. "Yeah I think the dinner is pretty much fucked. On the plus side, you've just had another workout so you have another ideal opportunity to refuel. And you know what else is provides an perfect mix of carbs and protein and doesn't involve moving very far from the bed?"

"Pizza?" asks Syed, his hopeful tone apparent even as his words were muffled by my chest.

"Exactly. Pass us the phone in a sec and I'll get calling."

"Yeah…in a sec," he replies lazily, his fingers tracing over my biceps.

"And then we can put new sheets on too," I laugh, flincing slightly at the feel of the cold dampness that lies beneath me. I continue to stroke Syed's hair, listening to his gentle purrs of encouragement, thinking of this evening with a grin, until a sudden thought invades my mind. "Sy?" I ask, tentatively, not wanting to disturb our peace, but curiosity driving me on, "did they not have showers at your training place? Not that I'm complaining in the slightest," I add quickly.

Sy fidgets on top of me, and then raises his head slightly to look into my eyes. "They did. I just didn't use them. I didn't want to risk…" he trails off until he gathers himself again and swallows. "I know it's stupid, but everything went so well I just couldn't bear the thought of having to relive all those memories from school. Trying too hard not to look at anyone in case they thought I was looking at _them_ , in _that_ way, and said something. I'd felt so good, like I fitted in and I didn't want to risk ruining all of that."

I hug him tightly again, and kiss his head, my next question hurting me even as I think it. "Would it be easier if I didn't come to watch? To avoid anyone saying anything to you?"

His head snaps up again. "No! Shit, no Christian, _no_." His reply is immediate and adamant. "You saying you'd come and watch is one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me. Ever. And I will be so proud to have you there in the crowd." He grins and leans up to kiss me on the lips, softly, lovingly. "So no getting out of it I'm afraid. You signed me up, you have to watch."

"I can't wait." I reply honestly, my beaming smile now matching his as I lean across to grab the phone.


	5. A Quick Discussion of Tactics

**Two Months Later. One Day Before The First Game.**

"Nope, I still don't get it." Sheets of discarded paper with indecipherable pictures and simple yet incomprehensible words scrawled over them are tossed off the side of the bed.

"You're not trying." And is that pained patience stretched to its limit that I hear? I roll over and watch hands fill a kettle, find two cups, reach up a shelf for a box.

"I _am_. Show me again."

"We've run out of paper." His lies are always shit but at least this is vaguely feasible, I think, as a quick glance at the rainforest-destroying pile of scrap paper on the floor adds some credence to his words.

"You've run out patience with me. I'm beyond stupid. You've given up. You don't want me to come." A sulk and a pout that attempt to mask the nerves of truth.

A sigh. "This was your idea remember."

"Show me again. Please. We can have tea afterwards. I'll pay lots of attention." Eyes are widened to best puppy impression, a pointless gesture as the one I learnt it from stands with his back to me now.

"Maybe I should try something else."

"Where are you going? What's in the back of that drawer? Syed Masood is _that_ where you hide all your chocolate? Blimey, you're a sly one…"

"Don't you mean a _Sy_ one?"

"You really are hilarious. Please don't give up the day job."

"Shut up and lie down. Take off your shirt too."

Surprise is quickly swallowed down as clothes are swiftly removed with pleasure and delight, only too eager to comply.

"You are so bossy."

I watch as a small pile of multi-coloured bags balanced precariously on top of each other in his hands are brought to the bed and tipped carelessly onto the side. Sharp white teeth emerge from plump red lips and tear a corner from a packet, spitting the discarded plastic off to the side. Several brightly coloured spheres fall into his cupped hands and I gaze in undisguised confusion at the laughing expression in his eyes.

"What are you doing with tho-… _oh_ " Gentle fingers press small pieces of chocolate onto my stomach, nails lightly scratching over the bare flesh and making me wriggle.

"Don't laugh. Stay still, otherwise you'll ruin it all."

"O- _kay_ " I struggle out, although in truth it is more the look of concentration that now occupies his face and the serious way his tongue pokes out as he places each of the chocolates onto me, that makes me body tremble with supressed mirth. Half a packet down he opens another and then another, my body rapidly taking on the appearance of some piece of modern art or one of Amy's finger paintings. Or both. Teeth digging into lips with earnest intent, I wait until he leans back on his haunches and smiles at me with satisfaction.

"Excellent. Now, are you paying attention?"

"Definitely." I state, perhaps failing to mention that my attention is rather focused on the tightness in my jeans and the feel of two denim covered groins rubbing together everytime he moves.

"Okay, so _this,_ " a gentle prod of my belly button, "is where the stumps are. And so _this_ ," a nudge of a chocolate button, resting happily in the line of hair that runs below, "is the wicketkeeper." I start to giggle. "Chris _tian_ ," he reprimands and I swallow down my laugh with a serious nod.

"Gotcha. Stumps, wicketkeeper. Brilliant. The cola bottles?"

"That's the batmen, one at each end of the wicket."

"Riiiight. And the M&Ms, they're the fielders yeah?"

"Yep!" he exclaims excitedly. "See you are getting there. These red ones are the slips, the yellow are the gully _here_ and point _here_ , with silly point just in front, the orange is cover, the brown is mid wicket and the blue ones are square leg _here_ and fine leg _there_."

I nod. As if I have the faintest clue about anything other than the eagerness in his eyes as his hair repeatedly falls and is flicked away, and the feel of slowly melting chocolate falling into my skin.

"The malteser?" I enquire, lowering my chin and peering down awkwardly at the ball of chocolate resting in the hollow of my collarbone.

"That's me! The bowler. I'm getting ready to run in and bowl. That's why I'm up there."

"Where I can't see you. Not good, Syed, not good at all. I demand you start your run up immediately." I stretch out my arms to Sy, the real Sy, not his manifestation in confectionary form but he wriggles out of my grasp.

"Oy, I want to make sure you understand this, even a little bit."

"Fine," I sigh, dramatically. Then a sharp inhale of breath as I watch his mouth lower slowly and steadily towards my neck, a peek of tongue as he reaches over and uses it to roll the malteser casually down the contour of my chest towards my navel.

"Bowled him," he laughs as the malteser makes impact with the defenceless cola bottle and his teeth make impact with my defenceless skin. My body craves more of his touch and my hips edge upwards, but his hands gently push me back down. "Stay still," he whispers into my shivering flesh as he bites into the cola bottle and brings it up to my mouth, his tongue pushing the sweet inside. I feel the rush of synthetic sugar mix with his musky tang, the combination fizzing and burning through my veins. "Hmm...time for a little test I think. You game?" he queries, his eyes burning into mine.

"Dunno…is this going to turn into some kinky roleplay? Do I get to call you 'Sir'?" I ask, the grin widening on my face.

"Not _everything_ , Christian, is a kinky roleplay."

I pout and he laughs, happily, his hair falling over his eyes and I lean up to brush it back, twisting my fingers through the curls.

"Fine," I reply, in my best put-upon tone. "But maybe if you're good, I'll let you call me sir later," and I grin, stretching my tongue out to wipe the sprinkling of sugar from off his lips, loving the soft sweet moan that hums from his throat.

He returns down my body and starts to lick slowly and carefully over one of the small chocolates placed on my stomach. His tongue circling around and over, melting the coloured case and pressing the rapidly melting chocolate into my skin.

"So what position is this?" he murmurs breathlessly, his tongue still lapping gently.

My mind is a fog of sensations, leaving little room for the efforts of thought. I urge any part of my brain that hasn't already melted or moved directly to my groin to run through the lists of words that he mentioned not five minutes ago, and pull out a random one. "errm, fine leg?"

"Yes! See you do know it!" Syed's voice is filled with jubilation as he returns up my body to fall into a glorious lingering kiss. He tastes of chocolate and sugar and happiness. The simple heartfelt pleasures of youth mingling with loving desire and teasing joy. I let my hands roam over his back, pressing our bodies together, stroking an eager palm over his gorgeous arse and following the curve of the most finest of legs.

"You're getting chocolate onto my top," he whispers into my mouth.

"I think I can resolve that problem," I grin, dragging the edge of his t-shirt up over his tanned stomach, over his slight but toned chest and off over the mass of tousled locks. He smiles and I reach to pull him back down, to resume our duel of love, for my hands to rid his body of the rest of his clothes but he pulls back.

"You haven't finished your test yet," he reprimands, and I let the delicious sound of his ordering tone and the glorious sight of him sitting astride me, hair askew, body flushed and on display, filter through me, furthering my desire as I push up into him.

"Go on then," I concede, moaning as he runs his tongue back over my stomach, searching for the remnants of the chocolate still smeared across my skin.

And on he continues, quizzing me with his words and destroying me with his tongue. Teeth biting into damp sweetened flesh with every incorrect answer. His mouth delivering sweet rewards to my waiting lips with every lucky guess.

Finally, my skin is licked clean, every inch left marked by his perfect mouth, every curve of muscle, every burst of hair left meticulously cleansed by his soft tongue, and I wait for his return to my arms and to my mouth. But he moves further down instead, his eyes bundles of mischievous want, bursts of light flashing in their amber glow. Lean nimble fingers push down my jeans, a sweet melodic voice laughs happily at my lack of boxers, a long clever tongue licks a fluid line along my erection. I moan with unrestrained pleasure and let my head roll back into the pillow, soft cool cotton against my heated mind. Sy's blowjobs are out of this world, the way he feels, hot wet mouth covering my cock, the way he sounds as he licks and sucks and hums at my rigid need, the way he looks, wanton and wild with lust. He told me once that he had never done it before, not to anyone else, and that thought, along with the way he relishes doing it to _me,_ well that just drives me insane with desire.

But right now he continues further down. The path of his tongue sends sparks of heat bursting from every nerve, his hand pushing up my knees and his mouth going further and _oh fuck_. He hasn't done this before. It's a not so secret delight of his, me rimming him, and something I delight in doing. And now he is lying here, the tip of his tongue making cautious, tentative swipes at me, and sending bolts of electricity burning up through my spine. He halts in his actions and I freeze, suddenly worried that this isn't what he wants, and I raise my head off the pillow.

"You don't have to Sy, not if you don't want—"

But he cuts me off midstream, with eyes ablaze, and swollen lips curving into a smile. "I want to. Fuck, I've been wanting to for ages." He pauses again, swallowing hard, his voice quieter. "It's okay though?"

And it is my turn to grin, moving my hands down to stroke over his hair, my tongue edging out to lick over my lips with licentious intent. "No Sy, it's not okay. It's fucking fantastic. So get back to it… _now_ ," I order, desire dripping from my lips and I watch his eyes widen and darken to nearly pure black before he drop back down to between my legs, his tongue no longer quite so cautious, his movements gaining a new confidence all the time.

I lie back and let my mind wallow in the delicious feel of Syed licking and caressing, kissing and lapping. My skin trembles under the wealth of sensations, the rough rub of his stubble, the sharp imprint of his nails, the soft brush of his hair, the warmth of his breath, the heat of his tongue. Multitudes of half-formed thoughts combine, old memories of snatched moments, of breathless fucks and rushed handjobs against walls, newer images of drawn-out explorations of pleasure, of satisfaction delayed simply for the joy of waiting, of late night near-silent, half-asleep lovemaking. Of Syed's face as he watches me strip, the naked want flooding over his features as his eyes flick over every limb, every muscle, every inch. Of his face when he comes, the light that hits his eyes, the revelling in ecstatic bliss. My Sy, my beautiful perfect boy now sending me into cataclysms of desire with his every movement, my moans falling heavily, my words simple pleas and praise.

"Oh fuck Sy, right fucking there. Baby…oh baby you got me good, you are so fucking good. Yeah like that…just like that…more baby please… _please…_ oh _Sy_... " My voice falters into useless vowel sounds and incomprehensible moans, my hand reaching for my aching cock and with barely a few quick and hard strokes I come, hard, fast, a mass of sated need.

"Come 'ere," I whisper, my voice rough from overuse, my hands pulling his lean, still half clothed body up to me, reaching for his mouth and kissing him. He hesitates at first, his body stiffening slightly under the sudden mix of tastes but soon he surrenders, his tongue colliding greedily with mine, his body pressing slender toned limbs around me.

"Where did you learn all that then eh?" I ask.

"You know, just picked a lot of it up. Off telly, in the playground, other boys at school." My eyebrows start to raise and I look at Sy in confusion and astonishment. But he is curled up in my arms and doesn't notice, continuing to speak instead. "And of course my dad sat me down and explained a lot. He used the 'drawing diagrams on paper' method obviously," he grins and realisation belated dawns.

"Not the cricket you numpty," I laugh, whacking him lightly on the head.

"Oh? _Oh_." He turns to look up at me with a half smile. "Well from you of course. I mean you have given me rather a few examples for me to follow."

"I guess I didn't realise you were paying so much attention to the details," I laugh quietly and murmur into his ear. "But you are one very very good student."

"So, you liked?" he murmurs, shyly, downcast eyes peering up through shaded lashes, a small smile of pride and nerves creeping over his face.

"I liked. I liked a _lot_. Did you?"

He bit his lip and nodded, quickly, taking my hand and moving it to his jeans. "Do you want to see just how much?"

I laughed, letting my fingers undo his zip, my hand sliding inside to stroke him while his eyes flutter shut and his breath catches. He is incredibly hard and it doesn't take long to bring him off, watching the way he near silently gasps, the tremble in his skin. I lean forward to kiss his pulse, feeling the steady drum of his heart vibrate against my lips.

He smiles lazily, moving back into my arms, his fingers running light circles over my chest as I lay kisses through his hair.

"So, you all set for tomorrow then?" I ask, and I feel the ruffle of his hair against my skin as he nods.

"Yeah, reckon so. Just hope I don't let everyone down." His voice is quiet, the words half muffled by my body and the duvet, but I hear them loud and clear and tip his chin so that he can meet my gaze.

"Not a chance. You'll be fantastic. I have so much faith in you Sy."

His smile is pure, hitting the parts of me that I never knew existed before I met him.

"Thank you. And thanks for saying you'll come tomorrow. It really does mean a lot to me you know."

"Yep, I'll be there, in the front row, waving my pompoms….does cricket have cheerleaders?"

"Nope." He moves up the bed to lie on his stomach looking at me and he shakes his head sadly. "So you'll have to pack that little tiny skirt away too I'm afraid."

"Ohhh, that's a shame. I could have used it to distract the other team. Quick flash of legs and you'd be knocking 'em down like skittles."

"I think that comes under the phrase 'just not cricket'. But you know…afterwards maybe I wouldn't object to the odd flash of legs..."

I laugh and kiss him quickly on the lips, a fleeting promise for the future. "So, will I be surrounded by all the WAGs then?"

"Something like that. What does that make you?"

"A HAB? A BAH?"

His forehead scrunches with confusion and distaste. "They don't sound good do they?"

"Oooh I could be your PAL."

"Well that's sweet I suppose. I kinda thought we were beyond that but..."

"Your Partner And Lover." I beam satisfactorily, pulling my hands up behind my head. "Good eh?"

"Super. That is how I will introduce you from now on. Anyway, yeah most of the team have partners who'll be coming. Ben says his mum always comes though, says she doesn't miss a game. Always there with a thermos of tea and a big slice of cake…"

His voice trails off, teeth tugging at his lips and his eyes focusing vaguely into the mid-distance, to the world inside his head that I can gain only fleeting glimpses into.

"I'll make sure I sit next to her then," I joke, but his eyes are still lost and I pick up his hand, lacing our fingers together, squeezing the reassurance of my presence into his nearby body but distant mind. "Did your mum ever used to come and watch you play when _you_ were a kid then?"

He turns back to me and the look in his eyes is enough to tell me that this time I have correctly guessed the path of this thoughts.

"Yeah, all the time. She was a bit of a nightmare in the stands at times."

I laugh, properly laugh, feeling the bed shake slightly from the vibrations in my belly. "Now that I _can_ imagine. Don't tell me, she'd tell you off for not having tucked in your shirt properly when you were out on the field."

"Well yes actually. A number of times." He smiles, his eyes sparkling, and I look at him with wonder that still, despite everything, the thought of his childhood can still make him smile with untainted happiness. "Mostly though she'd try and coach me from the stands. Yell out stuff about how rubbish the batsman was, how I'd 'thrash these pathetic little boys in no time'. She made one of them cry once."

"Only once? She must have been trying to be nice."

"She got kicked out once too. I got given out and she was adamant that the fielder hadn't caught it properly. Stood up, shouting at him, then the other kid's mum got involved too. Honestly Christian, it was awful, everyone was watching while my mum was yelling at this other woman that she should be ashamed of herself, having raised a son that lied and cheated, that brought such shame on her family…"

He stops. The words hang in the air between us, the unspoken meaning weighing heavy and cold, dragging a cloud of pain over us. I pull him into my arms, his body stiff with remembered tension, and I kiss his scalp, breathing in the scent of his hair.

"I know it's not the same," I whisper into his skin, "but I'll be there. And I'm really looking forward to it." I feel his body start to relax again, his mouth softening into a smile.

"Even if you still don't have a clue what's going on?"

"Hey! I'm getting there!" I object. "Anyway, what makes you think I'll be looking at anything other than the fittest player ever to walk onto a field? Or pitch or ground or whatever it's called."

"I didn't realise you fancied Ben so much," he teases, and I tighten my grip around him, feeling the oh-so-familiar and oh-so-perfect sensation of our bodies and minds finding peace in each other.

"Oy, none of that. Syed Masood, Cricket Star. I can't bloody wait."


	6. Test Match Special

My chest is heaving, foul tasting acid filling my mouth, the heavy thump of footsteps pounding unfamiliar pavements as I run and run.

It was a great plan. Syed needed to be at the ground early for warming up and team-talks or something and I had an early morning client, a smart city type that would happily pay double for an Sunday morning workout and we certainly couldn't afford to turn down that kind of easy cash. So it was simple; Sy would leave first to get to this ground somewhere on the other side of London, I'd deal with the morning client and then head over, arriving at the ground in plenty of time for the match but without getting bored out of my skull while they went through the pre-match build-up. Like I said, it was a great plan.

It was a stupid fucking plan.

The first problem came in the morning, when Nick called to say he was running late. I'd half wanted to cancel, but when he suggested triple pay I glanced at my watch and agreed. _I'd still have plenty of time_ , I assured myself, although it did mean that I would have to be quick in the shower, no lingering over thoughts of what Syed will look like all dressed in his whites. _And this extra money is going to be pretty useful too_ , I thought as I jogged slowly back home afterwards, picturing the two of us celebrating Sy's debut by splashing out at some posh restaurant in the West End.

Problem two showed up outside the flat. I shoved my hand into the side pocket of my bag to get my keys. And then pulled it out empty handed. Huh. I tried again. And again. Then the main body of the bag, pushing aside the towel, wrist weights and heart rate monitors that fill up the inside. Fuck. In desperation I emptied the bag onto the pavement and scrabbled about on the ground, chucking everything around like some desperate pathetic loser. Fucking hell. Eventually I came to my senses, chucking everything back into the bag except my phone, quickly scrolling through the names looking for Ian's number. It'll be fine, I'll get the spare keys from him. Okay, so I'll have to skip the shower and just have a quick splash instead, but it's no biggie. Except that instead of Ian's less than dulcet whiney tones coming through the phone, all I heard was the remorselessly cheerful electronic voice delighting in informing me that there is no credit remaining on my phone. Bastards. I jogged quickly to his house, to the café, to the Vic, but despite hammering on doors and questioning all and sundry, there is no sign of my annoying brother-in-law. Typical Ian, the one time I actually wanted to see him…

I paused for a moment, hands on hips as I contemplated the turn of events and then with a quick check of my workout gear (passable, I guess), I cut my losses and started jogging with more vigour now straight to the station. So no shower, no change of clothes. Not exactly the look I was going for but beggars can't be choosers eh. And it was then that problem number three hit me like a freight train between the eyes. I ran the recently emptied contents of my bag through my mind again and this time spotted the all too obvious omission. Oh shit. I could see it now, my wallet sitting casually on the table as I had run passed it this morning. My wallet, containing a twenty quid note, a handful of coins, my credit card, my gym membership card, a bundle of unwanted business cards, far too many old receipts and…my oyster card. My sodding oyster card. Fuckity fucking fuck.

My jog became more frantic as I headed back out into the street, casting quick-fire glances at the various people wandering past, searching for a friendly face until I practically fell into Jean's flower stall, nearly sending a couple of vases of chrysanthemums flying into the road. After multiple apologies, promises of debts to be repaid later, of unpaid work to be done next week, I eventually left, a crumpled tenner screwed up in my clammy hand as I ran back to the station, dodging stalls and cars, old women with shopping trolleys, kids sauntering, taking over half the pavement, and women with pushchairs. Like my boyfriend's estranged mother, scowling fiercely at the back of my head as I skirted around the menacing wheels of Kamil's stroller, her strident voice ringing out in my ears.

"Some people have no consideration for others, for the well-being of the community."

I wondered if she was shaking her fist as she spoke, but didn't bother to turn round and check, merely tossing my reply out over my shoulder.

"Sorry, can't stop to chat Zainab, got to watch your son make his grand cricket debut."

I longed to see the reaction but settled for the gratifying sound of her silence and the rare knowledge of preventing her from having the last word, and then turned my full attention back to my dash to the tube station.

When I finally managed to buy a ticket and get on a train all within five minutes, I started to think that maybe my problems were over. But somehow, when the train ground to a halt barely minutes in, lights flickering ominously to a chorus of resigned sighs, somehow I just wasn't that surprised. Pissed off, however I most certainly was, feeling my foot tapping uncontrollably against the floor, glancing down at my watch every ten seconds or so with the kind of impotent nervous energy that just screams of frustration. I am so fucking late. Syed is going to hate me. I made him do this, I promised him my total support and now on his debut I'm sitting like a fucking idiot on a tube that's going nowhere. As a metaphor for my life it's suddenly seemingly staggeringly appropriate. I let out a low groan and sank further into my seat as the tinny voice over the speakers talks of _unexpected signal failures_ and about the train ahead having _a problem with its electrics._ For the first time since I was five and had my dad drunkenly tell me that God and Heaven was a nice story for kids but that my pet hamster was _now just a pile of bones being eaten by maggots underground so get over it and stop snivelling_ , well, for the first time I found myself longing for someone to pray to, some higher power that could see my need and sort out a couple of bloody trains. _It's for Sy,_ I'd say, _I might be a bit of an arse sometimes but Sy, he's practically a saint. If you can have Muslim saints, I dunno, but if you could, well he'd be one. Surely he deserves a break?_ And well maybe there is more to it than my Dad would allow, or maybe Syed is just that good, or maybe it was just a coincidence, but as I finished my not-prayer, the train finally stuttered back into life and continued chugging along unapologetically.

At last, late beyond all reasonable explanations, I find myself here, running full pelt through unknown streets, vaguely bringing to mind Sy's meticulously hand drawn map that was sitting helpless and unconcerned by the side of the bed where he'd left it this morning.

I run down roads and up streets, chest burning, a hot pain choking in my lungs, sharp bile rising up my throat. I pant out questions to random strangers, asking directions and heading up other alleys, cursing my stupidity with every slap of tired heavy feet on the uncompromising pavement. I know I must look a state. I _feel_ like a twat. An exhausted, barely breathing twat. Yeah alright, I'm a personal trainer but I'm not bloody Usain Bolt. Or Paula Radcliffe either, even if it does feel like I've run well over 26.2 miles in the past, shit, it's already 45 minutes since I got out of the tube station. I am so fucking screwed. Sy is barely gonna speak to me if I miss his match. I've fucked everything up. The clamour of my mind runs continuously through my brain, with more stamina and skill than my feet found on the ground, until finding a steady rhythm of _fucked-up fucked-up fucked-up_ that echoes with my strides.

Then, _finally,_ I turn left, then left again, half trip over my shoelaces and stumble frantically into a gate, an entrance, a stand, in front of a field _._ A field of guys in white clothes throwing a ball around and shouting encouragement at each other. Oh thank fuck. I bend over, hands on knees as I let welcome breaths fill my burning lungs again, and wince as I glanced down at my watch. Okay, this was now officially into the _really fucking late_ category. Like two and a half hours late. A cry and a shout, that mixture of cheers and groans that sounded something like school sports day and I looked back up at the field to see a selection of high fives between a bundle of men as walked happily off the field. And two others helmets still on heads, bats in hand, talking quietly to each other as they walked off together slower, behind them. When they reach the edge of the field, one pulls off his helmet and glances briefly around the stands, familiar dark locks falling over intimate dark eyes, his body pausing for a second in the slight slump of disappointment that months ago I had sworn I would do anything never to see again. I raise my hand weakly in greeting but he turns away before he reaches me and walks inside the pavilion. I feel about six inches high. I've missed it. Missed the whole fucking thing. But surely it wasn't over already was it? Was it? I try to think more about Syed telling me about how the whole thing worked, all the plans for the day but all I can see is the slump of his shoulders and the faint wave of his hair falling across his saddened face.

"Fucking _hell._ " I fight hard against the desire to kicking the side of the seats next to me, settling instead for a louder-than-intended curse as I ran my hand through the damp tufts of my hair. I hear a faint snort and looked up to see a trim well-dressed woman looking at me, with an indescribable expression perched on the twist of her lips. "Sorry," I apologise quickly, mentally adding another wrong to my overflowing list. Now _she_ looked like the sort of person that ought to be at cricket matches, all neat and prim and properly brought up no doubt, not some sweaty fool still in his gym gear and swearing like a trooper who barely knows what side of the bat you are supposed to hit the ball with. Or if bats even have sides. I wait for the lips to purse and for her eyebrows to tighten, waiting for her to ask me to leave or something and turn this crappy day into a proper shitstorm of fuckwittedness.

But instead her lips quirk into what appeared to be a genuine smile. "Heard worse," she replies and I feel rather grateful that she didn't have sonic hearing and had avoided hearing the rather un-family friendly tirade that was accompanying my every mood. "Bad day?"

I laugh despite myself and shake my head. "Honestly? I don't even want to talk about it. I'm officially the worst boyfriend ever. I've missed his first match and now Sy is never going to speak to me again. Oh god, what if he leaves me because of it? He wouldn't leave, just because I missed one match would he?"

Her smile widens and a broad, and frankly quite unsympathetic, laugh peeled out. "Hate to ruin your melodrama moment, but it's not over yet. It's lunch at the end of the first innings. There's the whole second innings to go yet."

"Oh. Yeah. Two innings. Right." The words seem vaguely resonant within my mind, and my heart rate begins to slow. "So I'm not a completely awful boyfriend."

"Oh no of course not. Merely _half_ awful."

"Thanks." I huff, offended and she laughs again, looking more closely at me, a jolt of recognition seeming to spark in her eyes.

"So you must be Ben's personal trainer."

"Did the three piece suit give it away?" I laugh, gesturing down at my damp training gear. I think I'm beginning to find some kind of equilibrium again.

"Something like that. I'm Helen Davies, Ben's mother."

"Christian Clarke." I smile politely and stick out my hand, hoping it isn't too sweaty and isn't about to drip all over her neat attire.

"And so your boyfriend is the new chap that Ben has been going on about?"

"Yep. Well he was, and I hope he still is." The panic starts to rise again within my throat, and I rub the palm of my hand over my eyes to wipe the thoughts out before they can even begin to take form.

"I'm sure it'll be fine," she replies, with the kind of tone my own mother used when telling me that bruise would heal or that taking off the plaster quickly wouldn't hurt. "Besides, he may well be a bit relieved that you weren't here earlier."

My forehead wrinkled in confusion. "Why?"

"Well he was out for a duck."

I try to force various dodgy innuendos out of my mind and struggle instead to recall various terms that I had been instructed to learn.

"That's a bad thing right?"

Helen's smile hit somewhere between patient and amused but at least she wasn't laughing this time.

"Yes. Actually it was a golden duck to be precise."

Biting down on my sudden desire for a Chinese takeaway, I struggle on again.

"And that's… _really_ bad?"

"It's not the best."

My body grows heavy and tired, I'd fucked up and Sy had suffered the consequences. Maybe he'd been distracted, wondering where I was, wondering if I was coming at all. But as I hang my head and let out a quiet moan, Helen just laughs again.

"Come on, sit down and stop looking so forlorn. He's a bowler, no-one expects him to do much batting-wise. Ben's been fawning over his wrist spin for weeks now. And besides, he did look rather dashing, trudging off, all downcast eyes and solemn-faced."

"He always does," I admit, thinking of arguments that faltered when his eyes would grow impossibly dark and desolate, a weapon I have no way of countering. "But he looks even more gorgeous when he smiles," I add, with a grin of my own, settling down on the seat, before some of Helen's earlier words sink in. "So Ben's been fawning over him then?"

"Indeed, quite taken with him in fact." The expression of Helen's face was unreadable, however I felt mine was only too clear, as I tried to swallow back any stupid nonsensical things like how really I should be increasing Ben's cardio workouts, like maybe 50 squat thrusts first off and then 50 one-handed press-ups and really he could do with some earlier starts, except then no, because I'd have to leave the flat too at some ridiculous hour instead of staying in bed with Sy, and then…I shook myself back and tried to find a weak smile.

"That's nice."

"Very."

I look more closely and see a twitch of her face, a flash of something in her eyes and I narrow my own. "You're just trying to wind me up aren't you?"

She turned her head away and produced a tupperware box filled with dainty looking sandwiches and well put together cakes, as neat and trim as her herself. "Only slightly, now come on, I think you need a sandwich or two." I opened my mouth to reply politely, only to be betrayed by my stomach rumbling loudly at the sight of food. I swear, if I get through today without throwing myself under a bus then it'll be a miracle. Although given the way things are going, I'd probably just end up missing anyway. And to think I'd thought _Sy_ was the one with the hard time today.

"Thank you," I bring out my most charming smile and grab a sandwich. Or several.

I glance around the stand and take in the sight of what must be about 100 people sitting around. Far more than I was expecting to be honest, and the thought of all of them watching Sy sends a strange feeling through my body. A kind of shiver of anticipation and pride and just a little bit of nervous fear. Sy wants this so much, wants so much to do well and impress all this crowd of smartly dressed people. Shit, I really must stand out. Well fuck 'em, if they don't realise what a star Sy is then there's no hope for them whatsoever.

"Are there always this many people here?" I whisper loudly to Helen. She looks around as if she hadn't really noticed who was there or not before.

"Hmm, there's a few more than normal I guess. Stands to reason, start of the season, this lot were top of the league last year too. And our boys drove them pretty close all year long so it's bound to be quite a good match. And it's a lovely day, what could be more fun that spending a spring Sunday watching some fine cricket?"

I wonder for a minute if that is a rhetorical question, several plausible alternatives springing to mind but just then I see the teams start to walk out of the pavilion, a parade of white and off-white clad individuals talking, stretching, trotting along. And at the end, I spy Syed, his teeth tugging at his bottom lip, his hands pushing his hair back behind his ears, and I grin back my honest reply.

"Can't think of anywhere I'd rather be right now."


	7. The Champagne Moment

The teams stream out and Syed reaches the field, stretching his arms up into the air and shaking out his shoulders. Before I have the chance to realise what I am doing, I leap to my feet and start clapping enthusiastically, letting whoops and cheers fall readily from my mouth. It doesn't take long for Sy to see me, and in return I see his face start to flush as he gingerly raises a hand in awkward acknowledgement. Only now do I glance over to my sides to see the other spectators looking a mixture of confused, surprised and yeah, outright mocking.

I can't pretend that I'm not used to that, and yeah that pisses me off too, the fact that it isn't unusual, but what _does_ come as a shock to the system was how I felt. Embarrassed. Embarrassment isn't something I'm particularly used to feeling. Nor shame or anything else. Never been worth it. I do what I want, what I think is best and if it goes wrong or someone else doesn't like it, well so what? Life's too short. But there is embarrassing yourself, and then there is the look on Syed's face as some of his teammates turn and make (what I really hope are) jokey comments, and the reactions from the opposition batsmen which look slightly less friendly, I have to admit, and I feel my cheeks turn a not too pleasing shade of red as I quickly (and quietly) retake my seat.

Helen isn't even bothering to hide her amusement, although at least hers is of the arched eyebrow and pursed lips variety.

"I'm not normally so…" I begin to apologise.

"Suave?" Her eyebrows rise to implausible heights.

"…so much of a twat, I was going to say."

"Nonsense, you're livening this place up a bit. Gets dull here, seeing the same old faces all the time, you're a breath of fresh air that's all. Although would I be terribly out of line and presumptive to ask if perhaps you are not completely au fait with all of the laws of cricket?"

Put like that, there seems little point in bluffing.

"It probably wouldn't be my specialist subject on Mastermind," I admit and I receive a reassuring (or perhaps pitying, it's hard to tell) pat on my knee in response.

"Well if you can manage to keep yourself under control for the next few minutes then I'll explain the field settings to you if you like."

"No need," I reply airily. "Syed explained all that to me in lengthy detail." I let images of Syed's mouth and tongue working their way over my torso fill my brain and I am well aware of the huge smug grin that is covering my face.

"Well in that case, I wouldn't dream of casting aspersions on his teaching-"

"Wait!" I interrupted suddenly, my eyes scanning across the field in dismay. "Why is Syed all the way out there? Why isn't he bowling? Don't they think he's good enough? Oh shit is it my fault? For showing him up when they walked out? They're scared of what I might do, worried about their own reputations. Well call me paranoid, but that's just blatant discrimination!"

"You're paranoid." Helen replies calmly and blandly while my mind surges on with fearful thoughts. "He's fielding right now that's all. He's fielding because they want to start the bowling with their fast bowlers and then use the spin bowlers later when the ball is older."

"That sounds…confusing yet plausible?" I admit weakly once I have tried to make some kind of sense of this completely unfathomable situation.

"Quite. Now listen while I explain the importance of good slip fielding."

I nod vaguely and let her words fall over me, barely entering into my conscious mind as instead I focus on Syed, standing out in the field away from me. The wind is fluttering at the side of his hair and he, unlike me, is watching the events occurring on a narrow strip of flattened turf in the centre of the field. It's an odd sensation, watching Sy like this, watching as the oh-so familiar actions of him walking, talking, smiling, or frowning in confusion, combine with the unusual, the way he dives across to stop a ball, or slides along the rope round the edge of the field, and that speedy accurate throw that still somehow comes as surprise, this whole side of Syed that had lain hidden from me but so clear to so many others. I feel almost as if I am eavesdropping on a conversation that I am unable to follow, in a language I cannot understand. Back home this had all seemed like good fun. Well mostly. Yeah, Syed had stressed out about it at times but I'd thought that that was just him, over-thinking and worrying because it clearly meant more to him than just some friendly knockabout. But looking around now, it becomes obvious that it means more to everyone else here too, their serious composure and intense expression revealing that perhaps yet again I am again the odd one out, it's only me that just doesn't get it. I watch Sy, part of this team, part of this whole thing I don't get, and it's weird. And weird that it's weird. Because what really feels weird is how much he belongs out there and how at ease he is, and for the briefest of seconds I can't quite tell if I feel jealous of his part in my exclusion or delight in his belonging. Actually that's not fair, delight wins out every time, it's just that I can't stop a small part of stupid insane jealousy from poking in my stomach.

Yet when I see Ben walk over and pat Syed on the shoulder, and I see a tall young blonde guy throw the ball over to him, and then see Sy stretch up as he takes off his jumper and passes it to the guy standing in the middle ( _Umpire_ , Helen hisses helpfully in my ear and I nod in a suitably nonchalant, _Well obviously I knew that_ , kind of way), well _then_ all I feel is my stomach clenching and twisting, some strange and new sensation gripping at my insides. I lean forward in my seat, hands balled into fists and resting on my knees, feet tapping along of the rhythm of pride and nerves and anxiety that fizzes through my every vein.

He runs up and I breath in, holding my breath as I see him stretch his legs, cartwheel his arms, send the ball flying to the other end where before I have the chance to see what it does, it skids off to the side of the batmen and I hear the small crowd around me murmur and hum with approval. I breathe out a shaky breath and feel the hammering of my heart thudding against my ribs.

He runs again and the wind catches the errant locks of his hair, twisting them, playing with them, caressing them until he stands back to observe his handiwork and raises both hands to push those wild curls back out of his eyes. The crowd noise rises, the other players' encouragement grows louder, a hushed buzz in the stands, mumbled whispers coming faint into my ears as people ask _Who's the new boy? Pretty good isn't he. Got ourselves a right little magician here_ , and I feel my heart fill to near busting point with pride. I want to leap up and shout out his name, to declare with love and awe that this is my boy, my love, my Sy.

But it's not only pride that I feel. Syed turns and begins to run again, a fluid motion of coordinated limbs, his legs stretched with graceful ease, his arms extended above his head, the roll of his shoulders, the twist of his wrist, the flex of his fingers. This body that I know more intimately than any other, maybe more intimately than my own, is now being tested to new and different limits, being called upon in different ways. But in the stretch and the pull of sinew and muscle I see the same body being dragged out of bed in the morning, the shake of arms and legs to waken up somnolent limbs, arms above his tousled head and the crack of his jaw as he yawns into life. He is the same, his muscles are the same, but here he is alive and buzzing with a kind of energy that sends pulses of wild desire through me. He is the same, yet more so, yet different, and I shiver in the warm spring heat with the ache of it all.

He runs in once more, his movements shaking the shirt from his waistband, tugging it out of place, leaving a bare strip of soft flesh lying exposed over his hip. A tiny morsel of tanned perfection lying out before me, but maddeningly too far to touch. Its promise taunts me, the hints of dusky silk flesh pulsing hot and glistening with beads of sweat that run a path under the innocence of his costume. I think of the heat of his body in the dark and shift awkwardly on my seat.

He walks back with a steady pace, shrugging his shoulders with serious intent and inadvertently loosening his top still further. He turns and runs back in, and I watch the quickening movement of his legs, the pumping of his thighs as they strain against the tight cotton confines at the top of his trousers. Those bloody trousers, that lie loose around his calves before rising to cling fondly to the curve of his arse, the gorgeous splendour of his body given a new opportunity to shine. I shift again and bite my lip.

He runs and throws the ball but I have no idea what happens next, if other men run or don't run, if they catch it or drop it or watch it roll behind them. All I see is Syed's ease and grace as he dances his way down the field in front of me. I watch with trembling fingers and aroused nerves as this man I know with every touch and fibre of my being revels a secret delight, talent and pleasure previously hidden within. It makes me wonder what else is lying dormant beneath. It makes me feel fucking giddy with desire.

He walks back and stops , that tall blonde guy taking the ball instead from the other end and I scowl in confusion and dismay.

"Why has he stopped?" I mutter annoyed, half under my breath.

"He'll be bowling again in a minute," Helen replies and I have the distinct and horribly familiar feeling of being laughed at. Politely and poshly laughed at but still. "He's very good, your boyfriend," she adds and I sit back in my seat (carefully) and allow myself to feel slightly mollified.

"No," I grin, "He's fucking brilliant." I remember where I am and look guiltily across. "Sorry for the language." I pause again and can't help the smile from spreading across my face. "But he really is."

The match continues, with Syed indeed bowling again, and again, and I find myself watching him with an intensity I barely know existed. It's irresistible, the ability to observe him like this, to see the excitement and concentration wrapped on his face, to see his body being pushed and used in a way that was both recognisable and new. I realise a little better now why Sy sometimes sneaks out to watch some of my training sessions, but this is different too. This is Syed in a team, part of some well-oiled unit that we in the stands merely aspire to reach. This is Syed, the beautiful active object of not just my attention, but of a hundred other spectators. And when he bowls, eyes are all on him and him alone, a crowd of voyeurs, although I suspect that my personal voyeuristic thoughts are not matched by the majority of those watching. A few might come close though, I reckon, and then I let a smug smirk play on my lips, because yeah, when we get home tonight…

Syed bowls again and this time the hushed buzz around erupts unto a cacophony of unrestrained cheers and heartfelt groans as I saw the batman walk off shaking his head in dismay. What has happened, I don't exactly know but seeing Sy surrounded by his teammates ruffling his hair, patting him on the back, hugging him tight, well that says all that it needs to. And watching their bodies cover his, it's about all I can do not to leap onto the field and join in. It is almost too hard to stop myself from leaping in the air and shouting _That's my boyfriend_ , but hey, maybe the cheek-splitting grin on my face and the loud whoops of celebration that I can't control say enough. And when Sy turns afterwards to search through the crowd, a half-bashful smile on his face, I think maybe he's forgiven me, for arriving late, for not understanding the rules, for signing him up to the team in the first place.

I had been thinking that nothing could beat watching Syed bowl, but when he moves out to field nearer the edge of the field directly in front of me no less, well then I start to think that it might be more of a contest. Fucking hell, the sight of Sy, crouching, diving, bending over, all directly in front of my eye line and so close that I could see the grass stains of his legs and the drip of perspiration sliding down his collar and onto his back…that is something else. I can't tear my eyes away but I am all too horribly aware of Helen's presence by my side and as I shift position and cross and uncross my legs, I find myself trying to think of other, less pleasant things. The rules of cricket, say, except of course that that makes me think of Syed's hot body pressed into my mine, the sickly scent of chocolate heady in my nose. _Fuck_. I run my hand over my eyes and inhale several deep shaky breaths as I stare at the slender frame standing, rolling, crunching in front of me. He rolls and stops the ball, throwing it back with a flick of his wrist to the sound of easy applause. I find myself staring at his face, at the look of pure, almost childlike happiness that is written all over it. I've never been big into team sports myself, played the odd game of football with mates or people in the square yeah, but at school I just used to bunk off with James to smoke a crafty fag or cop a crafty feel instead. But through Syed's eyes I can feel the thrill of companionship, the bonding, the unity and it makes my heart ache with love for him.

Gradually I become aware of a shimmering sense of tension all around, Sy's enthusiastic shouts start to take on a slight strained air, while Helen's relaxed posture is replace by a kind of stiff nervousness. I reluctantly force my eyes away from the sight of Sy sprawled over the grass as he throws himself helplessly after a fast moving ball, and raise an inquisitive eyebrow up at Helen instead.

"It's very close," she hisses back, "We only need one more wicket, but they only need four runs. And there are two balls left."

I nod and turn back to Syed, watching how he is chewing on his bottom lip, fingers twisting in his hair, a picture of tense nerves that I long to wrap in my arms and let him come undone. But instead I edge further along the seat, and find my nails resting in my mouth, my stomach clenching with an anxiety that I had never predicted that I would feel.

A thwack, a thud, and a ball comes soaring through the sky in this direction. Sy runs in and braces himself, eyes fixed firmly on the falling ball, legs planted, hands cupped in the air. Time seems to slow, two hundred eyes all focused on a single man, on my Sy. There is a look of determined cool concentration in his eyes, but a hint of nerves still trembling in his wrist, and I recognise it well, sending shivers of desire through my body. Slowly the ball drops, slowly we watch it fall, slowly we watch Syed's hands open and close around the ball, a look of unadulterated joy and relief spreading over his face as a mixed chorus of cheers and groans fills the air. He throws the ball back up into the air and suddenly was again smothered by the arms and bodies and cries of his teammates. I leap uncontrollably into the air, jumping for joy and only the fiercest grasp of my self-control keeps me in the stand and not diving on top of him, feeling the squirm and writhe of his supple body underneath me. Well my self-control and Helen's warning arm pressing firmly on my arm, pressing even harder when Syed turns round and gives me the most beatific perfect smile I have ever seen. Reluctantly I retake my seat, feet tapping with unreleased tension.

The teams shake hands politely, the crowd applauds eagerly and I grip tightly onto the edges of the seat. As soon as they have walked off the field however, I jump back up and start to rush down the steps.

"Off so soon?" Helen asks, a touch of amusement playing through her words.

"Erm yeah, sorry, goodbye and thanks for all your help. I've just got to…I need to…see Sy…yeah, now." I fudge my words but I don't care, merely mumbling a quick _see you later_ as I set off in pursuit of my victorious man.

I run round to the small pavilion and dive inside, hearing the sounds of several men wandering through the corridors in front of me, their laughing voices and light footsteps making it obvious it was Syed's team. Their voices make me pause, a sudden startle that makes me duck into the doorway of a nearby room. I hear Sy's laugh, a gorgeous happy peal of laughter and see him walking down the corridor with the tall blonde lad standing (too) close to him, leaning in as they laugh. The twist of desire that has lingered and fizzled and risen and burnt inside for the past few hours is now at fever pitch and if that wasn't enough, there is now an extra side of possessive yearning on top. As Sy walks past my hiding place, I stretch out an arm and tug surreptitiously at his sleeve. Syed's eyes flick round and widen in surprise before suddenly snapping back round to his companion.

"Erm Matt, you go ahead. I've just remembered I've got to get something…that erm I've left something…over…" I watch and try to suppress my laughter as Sy points vaguely off behind them and wanders off away from the bemused guy. Once Blondie (Matt was it?) has entered the noisy changing room opposite, Syed rushes back and ducks inside.

"Christian!"

I can't tell at first if he is annoyed me or pleased, there is just this breathy exhale of my name and then nothing. But then I see the corners of his mouth twitch with a half hidden smile and his eyes start to soften as the smile takes over his face with familiar ease. "So you made it after all then, I was beginning to wonder…"

I don't wait to hear the end of that sentence, I don't want to. I don't even like to think that I made him wonder, that I made him doubt that I would do _anything_ to be here.

"Course I did, and I am so bloody sorry that I didn't get here right from the start, honestly Sy, you would not believe the amount of shit I had to get through this morning, it was fucking unreal. I was beginning to think that I was John Cleese's replacement in some dodgy remake of _Clockwise_ …"

Syed's brows furrowed in mild confusion.

"John Cleese in what? What are you on about?"

I laugh lightly and grab his hands, pulling him over to me, feeling the light calluses that are now marking his dirty hands, evidence of the last few hours that sends another quick jerk straight to my cock.

"So young." I grin and then spin him round, pushing him quickly against the wall. He doesn't complain, his eyes merely widening, the pupils dilating with the dark and with his want. "So talented. And so fucking gorgeous." I lean in to his ear, taking in the scent of sweat and the heat of his skin and whisper my next words. "Do you have any idea, any idea at all, just how fucking amazing you looked out there. Just how much I wanted you, the whole bloody time I was sitting in those fucking uncomfortable plastic seats. Do you have any idea how much I want you right now?"

And without waiting for a reply I dive in, capturing his lips with mine, dragging my tongue around his mouth, pressing my body ( _muscles stiff, cold sweat dried on clothes, desperate, wanting_ ) up against his ( _hot, fresh sweat clinging to his top, legs shaking, desperate, wanting_ ). He kisses back, fierce, his hands reaching up to my back, gripping the tight lyrca of my training top with tired overused fingers as I pin him further into the wall, letting my legs slide between his open thighs, feeling the gasp as it ran out of his mouth and into mine. I could feel it, in his body and in his kiss, that overwhelming mass of sensations that comes with the aftermath of physical exertion and with that taste of victory still hanging in the air. The flood of endorphins and bolts of adrenalin, that feeling of taking on the world and winning every battle that leaves you flying and soaring and sends you hurtling through the world looking for escape.

I pull back, our chests gasping in unison for denied oxygen, stretching a finger to draw idly down the damp curls pressed against the side of his face. I let myself savour the look on his face, the tongue edging out to lick at the corners of kiss-swollen lips, the darkened eyes that stare achingly at me with a hunger I will never tire of. I lean back in and start to lick a line along the contour of his neck, lapping up the musk of his sweat, the smell of fresh grass, the taste of his shivering flesh. Our near silent intimacy is broken as a burst of noise comes from across the hall, the sound of his teammates laughing together about something or other. The thrill of it and the sensations of Sy underneath me threaten to wreck me completely as I suck and lick and kiss at every inch of his glorious, heat-soaked skin. But I hear his voice shaking, words fumbling into half-formed sentences as he attempts to push some reason and sense into our lust-addled minds.

"Christian, we shouldn't…not here…the team…I should be…they'll be wondering where…"

I find the frantic hammering of his pulse and suck down hard, my teeth grazing against his neck.

"Christian, I mean it…"

His voice fades away with lack of confidence, and I feel the rub of his hands through my cropped hair. I reach down and carefully undo the button at the top of his trousers, loosening the zip, and hear his muffled _shit_ as I drop to my knees, pushing that pair of previous pristine white trousers, now stained grass-green, mud- brown and cricket ball-red, down his tensing thighs. I look up and smile at the expression of concentration and intent revealed through his half-lidded eyes. It must only have been a few minutes before when I saw that same expression on the field of play but now it was focused entirely on me. I feel like a fucking god.

"Guess you'd better stay quiet then." I grin and lower my head to lick a long line up his cock and around the head, relishing the sharp intake of breath from above. I take him in deeper, eagerly, with more enthusiasm than finesse. No time now for any of the usual practised technique of tongue or hand to send him quivering on the edge. No toying and playing, teasing him, tasting him, savouring him. Not now. We were both already far too near to losing it by the time our mouths had found each other. Now I just want to fucking devour him. I think of the eyes watching him on the field, of his whole-hearted enthusiasm and serious focus, of his passion and joy, of his body stretched and worked to its limits, the body that is now thrusting heatedly into my mouth. My thumbs circle around the smooth bone of his hip while his talented and tired fingers grip at the tight lycra of my top, clenching and digging in as he gulps back curses and pleas and whispered shaky exclamations of my name. As he starts to shudder erratically I can hold back no longer, reaching a hand down into my trousers and quickly, frantically palming at myself, quickly coming with a groan that shakes around his sensitive softening cock. I lean back on my haunches and stare up at Sy, now leaning back against the wall as if it is the only thing that is keeping him upright, his chest rising and falling too fast to be healthy. Once my own breathing has settled and my legs feel more confident about their ability to stand firm, I grab his hands and pull myself up.

"You'd better get back to your teammates…and find a good reason for where you've been. And why you look so fucked out. Naughty boy," I grin, spanking him quickly and lightly on the side of his arse.

He narrows his eyes and pouts in disapproval. "Bastard. I hate you," he says, with absolutely no rancour in his tone and I laugh.

"You _love_ me."

The pout vanishes and his eyes widen again as he leans in and kisses me hard on the lips. He tastes sweet and sharp, fierce and tender all at the same time and I feel my sated groin twitch with renewed anticipation.

"You'd better fucking believe I do."


	8. Man of the Match

I watch the very pleasant sight of Syed's cotton-clad arse make its way out of the room. A pause at the doorway, a tentative and furtive glance to either side, before hurriedly crossing the divide and opening the opposite door. A sudden bubble of noise rises, male voices clamouring over each other, strident tones echoing off the tiled walls, the splash of water and the clatter of clothes, belts, shoes all competing for attention in the otherwise quiet building. Then the click of a door closing and the noise recedes back to an excited hush.

 _Time I'd best be off then_ _,_ I think, and I saunter out of the room. That's the key y'see, to getting out of places where you probably ought not to be. Always look like you have every right to be there, like you _own_ the bloody place, like you have done nothing untoward. There is no look more likely to make people suspect that you have been up to no good than those secretive glances, guilty looks and fast running. I make a mental note to tell Sy that, some advice to bear in mind for another occasion. But then I'm not entirely sure I can persuade Sy to do this again anytime soon. I'm not sure how often you get to have your fantasies acted out but I'm not going to count my chickens in having this one happening on a regular basis. _Never say never though_ , I think, whistling happily to myself as I walk, no _saunter_ , down the corridor. Just before the exit I catch sight of a Gents sign on the door and dive in. Perfect.

I stand at the sinks and grab a handful of paper towels from the side, dabbing at the now spreading stain on my trousers, before splashing a handful of water over my face and hair and trying to freshen up a bit, or at least try to look marginally less like someone who just wanked themselves off in their clothes. I glance back into the mirror. Hmmm. Yeah, it'll do. It's funny, cos most of me just wishes I had really gone to town on Sy's neck, littering that line of tanned flesh with dirty red bruises so that when I stroll outside and throw my arm round him, every one of his teammates will know what went on. But nowadays, when it comes to Sy, there is this voice in my head sometimes (a familiar voice, soft and low and sweet) and I find myself thinking things like, _maybe it can wait till we get home_. Plus, only me knowing quite how wild my sweet looking boy can get, well that just might be one of the hottest things on this earth. And so, body half cleaned up, yet forever indelibly stained with his beauty, and with the taste of Sy still laying heavy on my tongue, I exit into the late afternoon light.

Ben is standing outside, large bag sitting at his feet, chatting to some of the other guys on the team, including the blonde lad who had seemed to be hanging off Syed's every word earlier. _So you managed to drag yourself away from Sy then_ , I uncharitably snipe in my head, before flashing a broad grin across my face, and slapping Ben round the shoulders.

"Nice work Benjy, great game."

"Thanks." His face creases slightly in confusion as he nods awkwardly back to the pavilion building behind us. "You were in…"

"Just using the facilities," I smile reassuringly and sure enough Ben's face relaxes and his body eases into an uncomplicated relief. Blondie, however, he doesn't look quite so convinced, scepticism pouring from unreadable grey eyes, but he doesn't say anything and I meet his eyes with brazen carelessness.

Maybe Ben senses something in the atmosphere, or maybe he just remembers how to be a Good Host and Team Captain (I can imagine Helen's voice chiming away as she teaches her son the proper ways to behave in _every_ circumstance), but either way he turns quickly and starts to introduce me to the guys standing around.

"Sorry, this is Freddy, Josh, Ahmed, Matt…." Oh yeah _, that_ was Blondie's name. "…Nick and Phil. Guys, this is Christian, my personal trainer and—"

"And Sy's boyfriend," I quickly interject, extending my hand out in greeting. And if maybe my handshake is a little bit firmer than usual when shaking Matt's hand, well I guess that's just one of those things, right? And y'know, if I deliberately flex my triceps a bit more than strictly necessary and then smirk to myself when I notice him glance warily at the muscles poking out from my training top, well what can I say? I never claimed to be some kind of saint.

"So were you much of a cricket man before today Christian?" One of the guys who _wasn't_ Matt asked.

"Nope, this was my first game in fact."

"Wow. And did you enjoy it? Wasn't too hard to work out what was going on?" Not-Matt seems interested but I swear I can feel another pair of eyes on me, less welcoming eyes, smug even.

"Nah, all fairly straightforward isn't it," I grin, hoping to take the wind out of Matt's sails.

"Seriously? That's pretty impressive." I see the expression on their faces and can't help but laugh.

"Alright, I might have had a _teeny_ bit of help from Ben's mum along the way."

There is suddenly a clamour of overlapping voices;

"You sat next to my mum? That's probably made her week. I'll be lucky if she doesn't ask to come along to our training sessions now."

"Did you have some of her amazing cakes too?"

"Those cakes are the only reason I joined the team," Not-Matt sighs, while various voices echo their assent.

I ponder quickly, trying to recall the mystical cakes. "I _think_ I had some… probably?" There are disappointed groans and shakes of head all around. "Well I was focusing on other things," I defend myself truthfully, thinking of Sy's slender athletic frame on display in front of me for hour after glorious, frustrating hour. Yeah, it certainly wasn't _cake_ that had been holding my interest.

"Didn't you think Syed did really well?" Matt blurts out the question, and I swear I can hear an implicit criticism weighing heavy in his apparently simple words.

"He was…" I pause, waiting for the right words to fall into my mouth. What was Syed? There are no words, not enough and too many. "He was _incredible_."

"Speak of the devil," Ben and I turn to see Syed rush out of the pavilion behind me, bag slung over one shoulder, half damp locks curling at the side of his face and dripping light dampness onto the shoulders of his tight t-shirt, tempting smooth skin sprinkled with sharp stubble peeking out of his collar, and bearing the darkened flush that told of hot water and steamy showers. I swallow back the whispered exclamation that is lingering in my mouth, the desperate need to get him home _now_ , to unveil that flesh, to cover the traces of heat and of damp, to push him down and search desperately, keenly, tirelessly for any hidden remnants of his sweat and his scent. I have to turn away slightly to stop myself from just grabbing him and dragging him away, sticking a (metaphorical, I do have some limits) finger up at Matt as I tell them all that I have to get Sy back immediately so I can fuck the living daylights out of him. _Patience_ , I tell myself, _let Sy say his goodbyes and we'll be home before we know it. And then…_

"Did you see Christian earlier?" Ben turns to Syed now and he answers unthinking.

"Yeah of course, just…" His voice trails off when his brain suddenly catches up with his words, "just then. When we were playing. And he was in the stands. That's when I saw him. In the stands." And that deepening flush can surely no longer be blamed on the hot water. He pushes his hair back from his face and flashes an apologetic and guilty smile at me. Ben thankfully limits himself to a raised eyebrow and doesn't ask any further questions.

"So Syed, ready to go?" I turn and fail to prevent my eyes from narrowing at the speaker. Bloody Matt, stealing the words from my mouth. Go where for fuck's sake?

"Erm yeah?" Syed turns to me, eyes wide now and nearly pleading, a stray lock escaping and falling over his forehead, demanding the attention of my fingers. "Christian, everyone is going to go for a drink or two, just quickly. It's a tradition apparently, after the game. You didn't have any big plans or anything?"

Plans? Yeah. You. Laid bare and delicious, lean limbs writhing against the crisp cotton of our sheets. My fingers twisted in your hair, my mouth stealing the breath from your lungs. My body pressing down onto your body, pushing down into your body. Worshipping you, claiming you, loving you.

I pause and look at the expression on his face, remembering him celebrating with his teammates on the field, the smile that hit every inch of his face, the laugh that lit up every spark in his eye. I grin back and swing my arm over his shoulder.

"Nah, nothing that can't keep."

I'll wait a hell of a lot longer than a couple of drinks when I know just how good the prize will be at the end.

…

We all crowd into a pub nearby, squeezing ourselves onto wooden benches around a long wooden table, Sy pushed up against me, his arm hitting mine every time he picks up his glass, his leg rubbing against mine every time one of us moves. Syed is soon in conversation with Matt and a couple other guys. I try at first to join in, or at least look like I am listening intelligently to whatever it is they are on about, but aside from the odd word about 'aggressive field placings' and 'desperate need for third man', all other words are either unintelligible or lost in the general buzz of the pub. Thankfully, before I find myself downing my pint with unwise haste (cos yeah, getting shitfaced now will hardly be much help for my later plans, I'm not that fucking thick), Ben introduces me properly to Nick. Lean but with shoulders practically bursting out of his top, I'm not too surprised when he opens his conversation by asking what gym I use and whether I know Tony, some bloke he works out with. He's easy to chat to though, Nick, and soon me, him and Ben are discussing the pros and cons of some protein diet Tony has heard of, and comparing notes on the amounts we've been bench-pressing recently.

"Shit Nick, don't encourage him," Ben moans, "I have a hard enough job trying to persuade him that not all of us need He-man arms. I just want to be able to whack a ball about with enough venom to scare away the pigeons, I don't need hours buried beneath a lump of metal that's heavier than me."

I laugh and toss a balled up napkin across the table at him.

"Wuss. I've taken you to the gym once, and I let you cry off after 5 minutes looking at the weights. So stop bloody complaining, otherwise I'll have you doing single handed press-ups all of next week."

Ben tips back his head with a theatrical groan and then turns slightly to Syed.

"Syed, some backup here man, _please_. Your boyfriend is a beast. He has no respect for those of us born without his Popeye strength."

I note with pleasure the way Syed's eyes turn automatically to cover my body, before he catches himself and looks over at Ben instead with a laugh and a shrug of his shoulders.

"I'm not getting involved. You're the one who chooses to pay him…"

While Ben begins a new complaint, about my taking advantage of his apparent latent masochist streak, I reach my hand under the table and give Sy's knee a quick squeeze. He doesn't respond. Or rather, he doesn't move or say anything, but I know I didn't imagine the slight tremble of his fingers as he reaches for his glass. I squeeze again, higher up his thigh this time and grin to myself as I see the glass halt almost imperceptibly as he brings it to his mouth. I start talking again to Nick and Ben, but let my fingers continue their hidden movements upwards, stroking, pressing, caressing. I listen to Syed try to maintain his composure as he talks and sips awkwardly at his drink. I'm getting rather close to not just crossing but vaulting merrily across the lines of Syed's normal acceptable boundaries. Holding hands in public sure; Stroking hair, kissing cheeks, and lips (and necks, sometimes, if he is really starting to lose it all), these too are okay, more than okay in fact. The feel of him folding into my touch is something that I still crave more often than I could possible admit, something that sends a warm ache through every inch of my body whenever I think of it. But _this_ , this sheer blatant _groping_ in public, yeah this is...new. And not just for him, but me too, in the way that every practised touch, every familiar kiss has always been new when he has been involved. Different, and so so fucking good.

And it's not like I'm _trying_ to make life more difficult for him, but seriously, the feel of his warm leg shivering under my touch as my hand reaches up higher, the way his calf arches and rubs against mine, and I'd have to be some kind of fucking saint, or eunuch or something to stop touching him right now.

After all, one of the benefits of finally getting Sy to be all out and bloody proud, one less suitable for shouting about on a march perhaps, is that now all these illicit pleasures stop being sordid and are simply, straightforwardly, hot as fuck. What's more, judging by the shiver of Sy's legs under my hand, the twist of his calf to rub against mine, the teeth teasing his bottom lip, yeah I'd say Sy is pretty definitely recognising the benefits right now.

A smooth stroke up and there is indisputable evidence of his enjoyment. So it is only polite to show my own appreciation with the cupping of a hand and the quiet squeeze or two from my fingers.

"Fu-" Syed begins, nearly dropping his glass, before rapidly attempting to cover his verbal slip with a rather vigorous sounding cough.

"You okay Syed?" asks Matt, far too solicitously for my liking.

"Yeah, drink went down the wrong way," Sy mutters in reply and I sling my now innocent arm over his shoulder.

"I'm always telling Sy, all this orange juice is gonna be the death of him. But does he listen to me?" I shake my head in mock sadness and Sy, his composure somewhat returned, hits me lightly in the stomach.

"Idiot." But even as he raises his glass in front of his face, he can't hide the tell-tale curve of his lips and the sidelong glance of his eyes across at me.

Thankfully it isn't much longer (time passing in slow strokes of socked feet along an ankle, beneath a trouser, up a calf, in casual elbow nudges against arm, into ribs) before glasses are left unfilled and people start to grab coats and cry out their farewells. Sy moves to leave too, but I grab his arm and pull his ear to my mouth.

"You still got your cricket trousers on you?"

His eyes flick round to me in mild confusion. "Erm yeah, they're in my bag?"

I grin and feel his hair brush against my face. "Go to the toilets and change into them."

Now he pulls away completely, flush rising from the bottom of his neck, dusky fingers of colour peeking out from his collar and begging for the attention of my mouth. Yeah, we need to get home _really_ fucking fast.

"Wha— Christian, what are you… What?"

"You heard me," I murmured again, my fingers drawing circles round his shoulder and over his collarbone. "I want to see you in those trousers again baby. _Please_ …"

I watch him glance around nervously at the departing figures, then down at the bag at his feet, then back to me, his eyes no longer confused but darkening in a way I recognise and long for.

"I'll be a minute," and he grabs the bag to his chest as he walks briskly to the toilets at the back. I gulp down the final dregs of my beer and walk out of the pub, leaning against the wall and smiling foolishly at the summer evening sky, feeling like a teenager high on love and lust and stupid happiness.

Caught in my daydreams of green grass and dark dark eyes, I barely notice Ben come jogging back up to the pub.

"Nearly forgot my coat," he grins, rolling his eyes to the sky and I shake my head as if I have no idea what it would be like to leave without your coat, your wallet, your keys, your mind...

"Christian, I hope you're satisfied now- Oh Ben! Hi!" Syed's sentence grinds awkwardly to a halt, his hands running through his already dishevelled hair, dislodging yet more curls to fall haphazardly into his eyes.

"Syed? Why are you wearing your cricket gear? Or rather why are you wearing _half_ of your _dirty_ cricket gear _again_?"

A couple of beyond-awkward seconds follow while Syed swallows and looks pleadingly into the distance and I try to suppress the bubble of laughter that is welling up in my throat.

"I, erm, split my drink on my jeans," Syed eventually blurts out.

"But you finished your drink when I did. I took the empties up to the bar?"

"He bought another for the road," I chime in, doing my best to be helpful and supportive.

"Yeah, yeah, and then I… I tripped and it went all over my trousers-"

"Totally ruined-"

"So obviously I couldn't wear them like that-"

Ben has been flicking between the two of us like a slightly confused umpire at a tennis match, but now he interjects in himself.

"And you thought your muddy, sweat-soaked cricket trousers would be preferable than some slightly damp jeans?"

"Erm..." Syed falters and looks over at me, silently begging for some help. But that laughter is bubbling up again and I have to bite my lip and look away. My hands are bunched up in my pockets, trying to keep a grip on myself as I hear Syed soldier on. "Honestly Ben, haven't you ever spilt orange juice on jeans, it's a complete nightmare. It stains everything, makes it all sticky, completely unwearable."

I glance back to see Sy nodding furiously, curls bobbing madly with his eagerness to be believed, eyes pleading for mercy.

Ben, however, showing a skill I have never possessed, was somehow able to resist those beseeching eyes and instead, gasped suddenly in realisation.

"Oh shit, this is a... _thing_ isn't it, between you two? A se-, a _couple_ thing that I really don't want to know about."

Syed's face is a sight to behold. Flushed from the tip of one ear to the tendrils of hair on his forehead and the dark stubble of his chin. He looks a mixture of aghast, embarrassed and yet, I note with pleasure, there is also a definite air of excitement too underneath it all.

"Well I guess I should at least be grateful that you didn't get up to anything in the locker rooms," Ben laughs. And then when he sees Syed looking like he is willing the earth to open up and swallow him whole, Ben's face changes again to an acid shade of puce. This time it is too much and I have to turn my back on them both so that I can shove my fist in my mouth while my shoulders shake with silent mirth.

"Oh God, please tell me you didn't. Shit yes you did. Christian I might have guessed, but Syed...I thought...Oh fuck, I really have to go. Like right now. I already work out with both of you, I really don't need any further mental images. Oh _shit."_

Without so much as a by-your-leave, Ben has turned on his heel and racing down the road.

"Ben, your coat?" I yell after him and he runs back flushed into the pub before reappearing, offending coat over his arm as he practically sprints down the road, nearly running straight into a lamppost in his attempt to make a quick getaway. I lean back against the wall and finally let myself convulse in much delayed sobs of laughter. Syed bites his lip and turns half away but soon gives in and joins me in helpless giggles.

"Come on you," I say once I am able to speak again, stretching my hand out to Sy. "Let's get a taxi and get home right fucking now."

Syed grins and lets himself be pulled in under my arm. "Sounds good."

"Oh, one thing though Sy, you do have cash don't you, cos I may sort of have left my wallet at home."

There is a muffled moan from my side and a supressed chuckle. "You're useless. Remind me again why I put up with you?"

Well, if that isn't an open fucking invitation then I don't know what is. I grab his arm and pull him round to me, pushing his hair back with both hands and dragging his lips up to mine. But I only let him linger there for a couple of seconds before my mouth hunts down his skin, leaving the softness of his mouth behind for the rough rub of his stubble and the tempting warmth of his neck. One hand tangles in his hair while the other falls down his back, gripping the thin fabric of his t-shirt in my fist as I hold him tight in my arms.

I pull away and lick my lips, smirking at the look of wide-eyed need and want lying there for all to see.

"That'll do as a hint for now yeah? Maybe I can remind you _properly_ once we get home."

"Fuck yes," Sy mumbles under his breath and turns on gratifyingly shaky legs to face the street and hail down a taxi. I run my hand through my own hair and let out a breathy exhale. This day is proving to be a real test of the kind of self-control I think only martial arts experts can be expected to have. Jesus, just look at him, flushed, eager, delicious. And around us, all these mostly private alleyways where it would only take seconds to drag him into…. But nah, I want more than that, and fuck knows Sy deserves a hell of a lot more.

Thankfully a taxi pulls up soon, before I have the chance for my control to really be tested, and we fall into it, sitting close enough for me to observe the rise and fall of Sy's chest, our legs touching from ankle to hip, every inch of those fucking trousers rubbing smooth worn cotton against me. It's kind of like it was in the pub earlier, except instead of the hard bench beneath us, there is the smell and smooth feel of leather, and the steady vibrations running through our bodies which is certainly not helping my attempts at maintaining Proper Taxi Etiquette. Fuck it though, that little _the taxi-driver is currently bored and eavesdropping on your conversation_ light is off, the windows are shut and the driver is steadfastly looking straight ahead and refusing even to glance in the rear-view mirror. His loss. I lean into Sy, my arm around his neck, breathing in the scent of his hair, the faint aroma of his shower gel still lingering around him.

"How much longer is this taxi gonna take?" I ask pleadingly into his ear. "You look so fucking hot and I have been patiently waiting all day—"

"Patient? That what you call it is it?"

I laugh against his skin and watch as his expression softens against my caress. "Didn't notice you complaining at the time. Let's be honest, Sy, you're just as bad."

"Really?"

"Yeah, so don't act so innocent with me Syed Masood. You're a filthy minx and that's all there is to it. It's just a good thing you have me to keep you under control." I punctuate my words with prods of my fingers to his leg, gentle at first then harder, until he shuts his eyes briefly and leans back further into the seat. He pauses then moves so that his mouth is now only millimetres away from my ear, his hair brushing lightly against my skin, his breath hot as it hits my goose-bumped flesh.

"Well… maybe you're right. I mean it's probably for the best that you couldn't see into the changing rooms then. All of us, all of these guys, walking in and out of the showers, naked, teasing each other, mucking around… you can imagine the rest…"

Fuck yes I can.

I turn sharply and catch the bright lights of evil laughter twinkling away in his eyes, the satisfied smirk twisting up the side of his mouth. My hands grip tight in his hair, his mouth barely a breath away from my own.

"You just wait till we get home, you are gonna get it boy, you are gonna get it so good."

"Turpin Road, right mate?" The driver's brisk voice cut harshly through the heated fog of want that had filled the small enclosed space of the cab. I glance up and blink, my eyes gazing blankly through the blinding haze of lust, but dimly making out the familiar signs of home.

At last. Well thank fuck for that.

I rub my hands over my eyes, forcing the unwelcome intrusion of mundane reality into our private world, at least for the next couple of minutes anyway. Till we can happily slam the door in its face again, and return to being just Me and Sy.

"Here's great, thanks." I flash an insincere grin ahead of me and lean deliberately across Syed to open the door on his side. I breath in his scent, I feel the shiver of his flesh, I hear the ill-concealed gulp of air filling his lungs. I pull back but rest my mouth against his ear, taking in the heat of his skin and the tickle of his hair against my nose and murmur in a low voice. "Come on Sy, pay the man already."

I watch him wrestle awkwardly with the wallet in pocket, shaking fingers grabbing a couple of notes and shoving them into the driver's hand with unusual urgency, before half falling out of the taxi, not even bothering to wait for the change.

"Easy!" I laugh, grabbing his arm to stop him from landing in an undignified heap on the floor. "Anyone would think you're desperate to get somewhere or something."

There is a flush so dark on the smooth contours and rough plains of his face, that it sends all the blood in my body rushing faster than ever further away from my own. I wonder if the flush has reached his chest yet, whether my tongue will be able to taste the heat of his embarrassment on his body. An eyebrow is raised in silent rebuke and he turns, eyes dipped to avoid catching the glances of passers-by, and he walks, no, practically _runs_ to the door, his keys stabbing at the lock while I loiter just behind him, close enough to hear the near silent hitching of his breath as he forces the lock into submission.

We make it up the stairs somehow, with colliding bodies and grasping hands that tug and yank at unhelpful clothing. Mouths covering flesh, lips sucking on skin, tongues dragging paths over flesh. The sounds outside, the rumbles and the cries of public life are muffled to my ears by the deafening of gasps and moans and curses as our feet stumble blindly up their usually safe ascent. He opens the front door somehow, but by now I am beyond caring about the how, only that it is open and we are inside, and that with the none-too-gentle push of his body and the sharp kick of my foot we have slammed the door on the world.

I shove him against the shut door, he trembles and moans, the wood shudders and groans in reply. I lift him up and his legs grip round my waist with practised ease, the heels of his trainers digging into my arse and pushing our bodies ever closer together. I litter his neck with the marks I had longed to leave earlier, the sharp rough stabs of his stubble grazing my skin and burning against the soft flesh of my mouth. He is losing himself, loud cries and longing keens harmonising in my ears as I bite down hard on the tender flesh in the hollow of his throat. He thrusts against me, his head banging against the wood with the force of his actions. He is writhing against me, his feet gripping harder into my back and my arse, while his cock strains wildly against the taut enclosure of his trousers, those stained, tight, ridiculous fucking trousers. It takes every last ounce of control that I have remaining to hold myself back. Admittedly it is mostly the thought of not wanting to come in my trousers. Again.

"Shit…Christian…I can't…just come on… _please_ …" Syed's voice is uncharacteristically rough, his tongue thick, slurring his speech, his words falling into a mass of rounded vowels and hidden consonants.

I want.

I let him drop to the floor, let him lead me a way into the flat, but I halt his progress before he can reach his desired destination. Na-uh. Not this time. I have plans. Sy pauses, confused, the cogs of his lust-hampered brain slowly turning.

"Bed Christian, please, c'mon..." The whimpers of desperation ring heavy in his tone as he tugs on my sleeve and widens his eyes.

"Nope. _Here_ ," I grin, twisting him round and pushing his pliant body against the back of the sofa, his muffled _oh fuck yes_ an unasked for agreement. I leave him there for the minute, hurrying over to the bed, pulling an assortment of items onto the floor in my rush.

"Christian, _now_." Desperation now becomes a pleading whine.

(Sy hates it if I say he whines. Crimson lips will turn into the most perfect pout, doe eyes will widen and lower. _I don't bloody whine_ , he claims, _what am I, five?_ But yeah, at this point, when lust and need matter more than politeness and manners, every whine, every moan, ever demand is the most beautiful sound ever to reach my ears.)

I return and stand behind him, just watching, and waiting, and wanting.

"Take 'em off," I demand, and shiver with delight, watching his fingers fidget awkwardly as they twist the button and slide the zip, forcing my own hands to remain by my side, my fingers twitching with restrained desire. He is mine. He is mine and he is here, leaving himself open and bare for me.

I stand and take in the living embodiment of the image that has haunted my waking and sleeping thoughts for months.

Maybe it is because I have spent so many minutes, hours, days, nights, thinking of him like t _his_ , like he was earlier on the pitch, that it has now almost got to the point where I can no longer see grass or sports stands without every fragment of my body shivering and longing with an intensity that common sense would say should surely be reserved for...for something bigger or more serious or whatever. (And yeah common sense can fuck right off as clearly common sense has never spent a day watching Sy in his element, in his splendour, the perfection of all he can do and all he is, and what could be bigger or more serious or better than that?) Maybe that is why right now my senses feel overwhelmed, with too much thwarted desire and tampered down lust for clear minds or conscious thoughts.

There are fingers, hands and fingers, sliding through sweat-dampened hair, balling thin fabric between tightly clenched fists, scraping lines onto upholstery with blunt nails, pressing and pushing inside. There are cocks, thrusting, sliding, rubbing, in tight heat and against fabric that feels almost rough against tender flesh. There are legs, thighs tense and shaking, calves stretched and shivering, flesh hitting against flesh, skin slick against skin. And there are mouths, mouths that first gasp for breath, then let out moans and pleas, sweet and low, filthy and loud, indistinct keens and clear-sounding cries that hit walls and reverberate around the room, that hum along veins and echo inside bodies.

The feet of the sofa are scraping along the floor as our bodies pound forcefully against the furniture. Sweat forms and drips and pools along muscles and into hollows, stinging as it falls uncaringly into eyes. My knuckles are white, his t-shirt is nearly ripped to pieces under my nails, his hands are shaking with the tension of his grip. Yet the words that fall from my mouth are quiet now, soft, near silent but loud enough to reach him, to grant the tips of his ears a dusky blush, as if my words can hit something, somewhere that our actions cannot. And hasn't it always been this way? I murmur truths, about the way he looks now, the way he looked before, and the way that he drives me insane, about the thoughts and wants, my not-so-secret pleasures that he has brought to me. I whisper tales of his beauty, of his power, of his talent and plead with him _just to let go baby, let me feel you come_. As he cries, and tightens and shudders around me, my body thrusts for a final time, hard and erratic, until I shudder and release and fall limply onto his body, chest heaving, body sore.

His hair is tickling my nose, brushing against my lips and stroking my shut eyes. I feel like I could stay here forever.

"Christian...I really...need...some...air..."

Or maybe not. I quickly pull myself together and stand back up, yanking Sy's up by his t-shirt too until he is leaning slightly against me.

"Better baby?"

"Well I can breathe now so yeah I guess. I thought my lungs were about to collapse." He laughs as my arms snake round his waist and I lay a soft kiss on his neck. "I think we might have left the sofa in a bit of a state," and I notice his eyes flicking up to mine with the slightest hint of worry. I force my tired and sated mind to focus on something other than the feel of Syed's warm body resting in my arms and glance casually in front of us.

"Hmm...sticky, stained...it's nearly as bad as orange juice on jeans," I smirk. "It's only a sofa...and it was certainly worth it."

He grins and turns round in my arms. "And to think when I first moved in you nearly had an aneurysm because I dropped a piece of pizza on here."

"Well maybe I'm less anal that I used to be. Or y'know, _more_ ," and I squeeze his arse in my hands as he groans.

"Not the puns, anything but the puns."

"Sorry, is that _Syed Masood_ criticising me for my jokes? That's got to be a new low."

"Fuck off."

"Is that your witty retort?"

"I'm shattered and can barely stand upright, thanks in part to you, and in part to 11 other slave-driving men beating away my balls. Just pretend that I said something incredibly clever and witty."

"Well I'll _try_."

I ruffle his hair and steal a quick gentle kiss from his lips. He does look knackered.

"Look I'm gonna grab a shower, and you could do one with one too, to be honest."

"I thought I smelt all manly and macho like this," he mock pouts.

"Yeah yeah, incredibly manly. And also quite disgusting. C'mon, grab a shower and then we can crash on the sofa and watch trash."

"You first, I'll clean this up then come through."

"I'll be waiting." I wink and then wander through to the bathroom.

...

Ten (lonely) minutes later, I return to the rest of the flat, tying my dressing gown as I walk and singing happily under my breath. The notes slip away quietly though, when I spot Sy lying face down on top of the duvet, t-shirt still in place, low snores rumbling through the pillow.

It's probably for the best that no-one is able to see the soppy smile that is now plastered on my face.

"Alright sleepy-head," I murmur, and doing my best not to disturb him, I roll him to the side and pull the duvet up over his body.

I glance at my watch, it's still quite early and the adrenalin from today is still pumping through my body. I grab a beer from the fridge and take a seat on the sofa, curling my legs underneath myself. I flick on the TV, instantly dimming the volume, and start skimming through the channels. Boring shit the lot of it, even on the weird extra channels I swear I didn't know we had, until suddenly I hear...

 _And now we have exclusive highlights from today's test between the West Indies and Pakistan..._

Hmmm, maybe I could give this whole cricket thing a real go? Watch some matches on the TV, learn some more of the lingo, maybe become a real fan, not just watching Sy sweat.

I take another sip of my beer.

Ha, yeah, as if. There's only one cricketer I'm interested in and he's snoring like a trucker in our bed. I shove the barely touched bottle onto the table and pull back the covers.

"Sleep tight baby," I whisper.

"Should've gone for the googly," is his slurred sleepy response and I drag my arm over his back and kiss the top of his head.

"Always, Sy, always," I laugh quietly, before losing myself in the warmth of the duvet and the heat of his body.

There is a whole new season lying ahead of us.

And in my sleep I grin.

 **~完~**


End file.
